The Stains of Time
by roseyknights
Summary: Brendan Brady is out of prison, although the chains of the past still leave him unable to move on. A Brendan centred fic with characters from his era on the show. Exploration of his resulting damaged mental state - not a happy story by any means.
1. Chapter 1

**Author note: Thank you to everyone who has given this story a go so far! I have read some wonderful pieces based in this fandom over the past few months, so was inspired to add my own to the mix. I'm particularly interested in the character of Brendan (who isn't?!) and how he would cope with imprisonment and its aftermath. I have the whole thing plotted out - expect around 30 chapters (although I haven't quite got my head around how I'm going to split some events, so this may stretch to more). It is quite bleak, mainly because I am a sucker for a tragic Byronic hero, a role which I think Brendan fills nicely.**

 **M rating is for language, violence and mature subject matter. Anything particularly explicit will be labelled for prior warning.**

 **As I no longer watch Hollyoaks, the village, characters and events will probably be a bit AU, particularly where it comes to who is alive/dead! Doug, for example, has been given a new life abroad (couldn't face killing him off, bless him), whereas other characters have met their maker for plot purposes. I hope this isn't confusing for anybody, please let me know if you have any questions. This is a new venture for me, so I would appreciate feedback as I go along. I will try to update as regularly as possible.**

1.

Rain was a beautiful feature when in the north west of England. Particularly beautiful if you had spent countless minutes, hours, months, years inside a metallic brick lined box. Fresh air and rain had become luxuries in this interminable stretch of time.

Brendan paused underneath the arch that would bring him back to the village where it all began. Despite being inadequately dressed for the downpour in a thin leather jacket and jeans that barely fit, he took the time to stop and bask in the feel of the raindrops against his skin. He offered his face to the heavens, eyes closed, arms outspread, and a feeling of peace washed over him, brought no doubt by the essence of freedom that being exposed to the elements represented. After so long in a prison cell, Brendan breathed in the scent of the village with relish. Droplets splashed across his upturned face, his overgrown and unkempt hair, his grey flecked beard; his heart filled with reckless, painful joy.

Unbidden, the memory of striding through this arch on his first arrival to the village swept through his mind. So full of swagger and misplaced confidence. He had believed that his sister was incapable of managing a business, that he would be able to take over her venture with little trouble. Cheryl had proven him wrong of course. Always stronger than her older brother, as it turned out. Not more intelligent - certainly not - but her charm and relentless positivity meant that Cheryl was able to cultivate friends, fans and most importantly business despite Brendan, rather than because of him. He had learnt to be proud of her. Eventually. From time to time she had even been proud of him...

Another entry through the archway plagued Brendan's memories. Carrying bags that did not belong to him, an uncharacteristic grin plastered across his face. Ahead of him, his sister clutched onto the arm of a young man, whose face turned towards Brendan and -

He mustn't do this. Brendan shook his head and opened his eyes, rain drops falling delicately from his eyelashes onto his stubbled cheeks. He glanced at the village's 'welcome' sign, and sighed inwardly. Not much seemed to have changed. The fountain was still trickling away, and the coffee shop was still standing, although the name had evidently changed. The corner shop was also a familiar sight, and on further inspection, it appeared that the local pub was intact too. Brendan stepped into the centre of the village with an air of trepidation - the buildings he was truly interested in lay directly ahead.

The deli was still, ostensibly, a deli. It appeared however to be under new ownership, as it now bore the rather jaunty name 'Deli Delights'. To see it trading gave Brendan a peculiar twisting emotion in his gut. Without warning, he was bombarded with a memory of inelegantly spitting out a spray of unsweetened coffee and glaring at the young man who had handed him the travesty of a drink. Of sitting on the bench that still remained in situ, in weather not too dissimilar to the present, watching as Steven tended to the exterior of the deli, proud and -

No. Brendan growled inwardly, swallowing the recollection and resolutely turning his back on 'Deli Delights', to instead by faced with his greatest fear. He squinted up through the drizzle , the sky seeming unnaturally bright in the wake of the storm besieging the village.

Cheryl had told him that the name of the club had reverted to 'The Loft'. They had even laughed together about the idea of any new owner keeping the patently ridiculous moniker of 'Chez Chez'. As a murder scene, the club had gained a degree of unwelcome notoriety, and selling it seemed like more of a challenge than Brendan had anticipated. Luckily, his solicitor was reasonably adept with property law, and after recovering the club's full ownership from one Joel Dexter, 'Chez Chez' moved on to its new incarnation. The manoeuvre was never fully explained to either Brendan or Cheryl, but in the end it hadn't mattered; Brendan made money from the sale despite the odds. It left him feeling oddly detached from the proceedings, as though the place hadn't been one of his great passions. Looking at the building now, Brendan was aware of a vague uneasiness falling over him, as though he were in another time, and the club was still his domain.

Two young girls cantered through the Loft's courtyard, hollering and screeching at each other, breaking through Brendan's reverie. Their heels clicked jarringly on the metal steps, leading Brendan to gaze up at the balcony around the building, which was seemingly unaltered. At once he heard the roar of sirens and felt the wind on the back of his neck that was generated by the whirring of helicopter blades. Without realising what he was doing, Brendan cradled the back of his head with his hands in a gesture of surrender, closing his eyes in the process. A gunshot rang out, like an ominous toll of a church bell. Judgement day.

His eyes startled open of their own accord, as he watched the motorbike that had just backfired speed away from the village through the archway where he had stood some minutes before. Cursing quietly, Brendan strode purposefully towards the stairs which led him to Oakdale Drive. He stood in front of the house which had been his home for three years. The door, which had been blue during his residence, was now a stylish sage green. He remembered leaning against that door frame, stretching his body out for maximum effect to disarm Steven. He remembered Walker pushing through his arms to attend a birthday dinner he was certainly not invited to, his manic expression a puzzle to Brendan and the only real reason he had let him in at all.

Perhaps that wasn't entirely true. Brendan felt on the outskirts of his brain, that vague tickle of attraction he had felt for the man. Despite the self loathing and the mistrust, there was a sense that something bound them together, entirely separate from Brendan's other relationships. It had been suggested to him that the connection with Walker had been to do with their mutual dysfunction - his therapist had pointed out that both men had mental imbalances. Brendan wasn't convinced. The feeling of guilt for bringing Walker to the village however; he was convinced of the power of _that_ emotion.

The rain had eased off a little, and was now a persistent drizzle that rendered the surroundings grey and miserable. Brendan leant on the wall opposite his former home and quietly took in the neighbouring residence. When he and Cheryl had lived there, it was the haunt of a steady stream of students, who had caused so many disturbances that Brendan had often considered poisoning their punch bowl, or smashing their young ignorant heads against a wall in the hopes of shutting them up. Brendan strained his ears, but could hear nothing. He huffed an ironic laugh under his breath. That the student hellhole had been the place where Brendan had been introduced to a number of his adversaries did not bear thinking about. In his mind the door opened, and out strutted Noah, the gym god who was unable to stay faithful for more than five minutes. Behind him, looking as always for reassurance, was Douglas, his greatest competition and the man who almost delivered Brendan his happy ending.

Brendan stared at the door intently as though he could see through it. Cheryl had told him that Doug had gone back to America after his relationship break down, and had met a sweet little sommelier to run his parent's vineyard with. He had no idea what had happened to Noah, but Brendan liked to imagine that the boy had learned his lesson - perhaps he was even in Newcastle still pining for a future with the lover he had lost.

Brendan's phone rang, the shrill tone of it breaking through his musings. He rummaged in his jacket pocket and looked at the screen, a frown across his features. Brendan pressed the reject button firmly; he was not yet ready for that conversation. Flicking the phone to silent, he placed it back in his pocket and made to descend the steps back into the village.

A wave of nausea hit him as he imagined the weight of Lynsey in his arms as he planted his foot on the first step. His eyes squeezed shut as he felt her raven hair spilling across his face, her neck unnaturally lolling in the crook of his shoulder. The same deafness and dumbness he had felt then caused him to stumble and cry out silently. Memories threatened to overwhelm him. Brendan gripped the handrail of the stairwell as though his life depended on it. His frantic, panicked brain tried hopelessly to reconcile the past with the present, an image of Riley's broken body on the ground below had to be blinked away as his heart rate soared, sweat forming on his brow despite the weather.

"Slow breaths...in through the nose, out through the mouth..."

Bloody therapists. Nevertheless, Brendan allowed the advice to take hold, and almost against his will he began to feel better. As his consciousness returned, Brendan hurried down the remaining stairs, almost instantly bumping into a terrifyingly familiar face.

"Not answering your phone anymore? Starting to think you're not that into this reunion after all," Joel said, with a smirk on his handsome face. An uncharacteristic flood of warmth flowed through Brendan, who threw an arm around Joel's shoulder in a one sided hug, before leading him to the Dog in the Pond for a well overdue drink or two.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

"So, how's life on the outside treating you?"

Joel had kindly ventured to the bar for Brendan, bringing their beers out onto the terraced area along the river. Unsurprisingly, due to the weather, the two men were entirely alone, which was just how Brendan wanted it. He took a sip of the beer in front of him and sighed in pleasure. Brendan wondered if he would ever take an alcoholic drink for granted again - the thrill of being able to get drunk and lose control suddenly seemed absurdly exciting.

"It's been...brief so far," Brendan said, taking another glug from his pint glass, "any chance of a whiskey chaser with the next one Joel?"

Joel raised an eyebrow and threw a bag of crisps at Brendan, who huffed a grateful laugh and proceeded to open the bag and dispose of the contents enthusiastically.

"I have to admit, I was surprised when I heard you wanted to see me. Thought Cheryl must be playing a practical joke or something."

"You know me, Joel. I like to let bygones be bygones," Brendan said, crisps flying in all directions as he continued to stuff them unceremoniously into his mouth. He washed the crumbs down with the rest of his pint, before giving Joel his full attention once more. He looked much older than Brendan remembered, hairline slightly receding and a smattering of facial hair on the chin that had once been so baby faced. He remained handsome, but had a haunted look behind his eyes that could not easily be hidden. Joel too wore a leather jacket, but whereas Brendan's struggled to contain him, Joel's was hanging off his slender frame.

Brendan tentatively touched Joel's hand, which was resting on the picnic table next to his pint glass.

"Joel...Cheryl told me...I heard...I know why you sold the club. For what it's worth...I'm sorry."

Joel pulled his hand away and used the other to blot the tears that had gathered at Brendan's words. He looked angry and bitter, and he couldn't meet Brendan's eyes. Brendan did not blame him; in fact, it was a moment where he felt that Joel's suffering might be similar to his own.

"Look Brendan. I don't need your pity okay? And I sold the club because - who wants to own half a club? I said it so many times. When you were put away it was my chance to start again. What happened with...Theresa, well -"

Joel's voice broke at this last, and he turned away hastily. Brendan shifted in his seat and sniffed uncomfortable. He had always been dreadful at consolation. Time in prison had dulled his skills further, rather than improving them.

"Okay," Brendan said quietly, taking his phone out of his pocket as he did so for something to do. Errant raindrops landed on his screen and he brushed them away impatiently. Two missed calls from Joel. One missed call from Cheryl. A missed call from an unknown number. A voicemail message, and a text message from his parole officer kindly reminding him to "check in" tomorrow. Joel had composed himself in the meantime, and was finishing the pint in front of him.

"Want another?" he asked, grabbing both glasses and heading towards the bar.

Brendan nodded absently, "hey Joel, did you leave me a voicemail earlier?"

Joel let out a short bark of laughter, and shook his head.

"Voicemail? What, like a crazy ex girlfriend? Don't flatter yourself Brendan I wasn't that desperate to talk to you. Whiskey chaser, yeah?"

Brendan grunted in response and held his phone up to his ear whilst Joel disappeared into the warm belly of the pub.

"Hey Bren - only me. I tried to call, but maybe you met with Joel already? Listen love, I know you said your therapist feels it's important for you to visit the village - for _closure_ or whatever - and you know I want to support you with that. I'm just worried that this whole thing will open up old scars and undo all of the amazing work you've done. I mean, the village hasn't really got anything left for you now, what with Anne in America and me in Ireland. And I'm sure I told you the other day, Joel's only there whilst he settles Warren's estate, he'll soon be moving on. And then there'll be nothing but ghosts there Bren. I know the real reason you were so hell bent on going there. You think I'm daft sometimes, but I'm not, I know you better than you know yourself. Bren, this is so difficult, but I have to tell you, because I'll never forgive myself if I don't. And I don't want you to find out in some other way. It's Ste. He's -"

Brendan swore as the two beeps that signalled the end of the voicemail rang in his ears. His sister was infuriating, wittering on about irrelevant nonsense, when the only information he truly desired was cut off due to the length of her monologue.

A whiskey glass was slammed down in front of him in what seemed a very timely fashion. Brendan lifted the glass in the direction of an inquisitive Joel.

"Slainte," Brendan muttered, throwing the entire measure of whiskey back in one. No longer adept at drinking hard liquor, Brendan coughed and wiped his watering eyes as the whiskey hit the back of his throat. Joel had the grace to look mildly alarmed, as he swung his legs back over the bench to sit facing Brendan.

"Just a warning Brendan. I ain't carrying you home."

Brendan snorted and gestured around him. The village was growing darker, although thankfully the rain had largely ceased. There was however still an unseasonable chill in the air, and those entering the pub were doing so huddled in their coats to escape the bitter bite of the wind. Brendan seemed curiously unaffected by the cold, picking up his newly filled pint glass and studying the contents intently.

"Tell me Joel. Where would _home_ be for me exactly?"

"Give over Brendan, you know what I mean. If you're going to insist on being awkward, why meet me in the first place? Sure there are a thousand things you could be doing instead with your first week out."

Brendan couldn't help himself. He let out a loud, psychotic laugh that held no humour in its tone whatsoever. Joel flinched and buried himself into his jacket and beer.

"Ah yes, my first week out. Air filled with leprechauns and rainbows. First I thought I'd take a ferry to Dublin town, see the kids who haven't spoken to me since I was sent down for murdering their grandfather. And then? Maybe a moonlit stroll along the Liffey Bridge with the man whose life I destroyed and then told to forget all about me. Perhaps then we could all hop on a plane and visit L.A and the only friend I have left, who still left me here without even saying goodbye. And what'll be waiting for me on return? That's right, police at the airport, waiting to transport me back to prison for breaking parole. I can hardly wait to get back to my home away from home..."

Brendan's tone was murderous, dripping with frustration and bitterness. All of the places and people he really needed were irrevocably out of reach, and not because of parole constraints, but because of who he was and what he had done. The irony was that now outside of prison walls, he felt more isolated than ever. He let out a long breath and clamped his teeth together.

"I guess being on the outside is really just a bigger prison. The bars are invisible now, but they're still there, you know?"

Joel nodded sympathetically.

"It's not forever Brendan. And look, as far as helping you, you can stay with me. Least then you've got somewhere to go, even if it's not your first choice. I'm subletting an apartment while I'm here. If you want to hang around a while longer, I could even see if Tony will agree to a new tenant in the flat."

A burst of laughter carried from the pub door as a group of people left, huddled together against the chill. Brendan, never exactly one to laugh freely, wondered what everyone had to be so cheerful about. The group turned out to contain some familiar faces, with Myra McQueen calling out a greeting to Joel, who gave a small half wave in response. Brendan pulled the collar on his jacket up, burying his head further in a bid for anonymity. Joel looked on, amusement playing around his mouth.

"If you do want to stay, you're going to have to get used to it. People will remember you Brendan, not as though you can avoid it. New hairstyle and beard aside."

"I know that Joel. Just not yet. Not today, anyway. I can't -"

"Hey, I get it. More than you realise."

Brendan gave Joel a grateful smile. It seemed like another lifetime ago that Brendan had sent Joel into exile, threatening him with death if he ever returned to the village. The things that Brendan had been so angry about had faded into insignificance as the years passed. Joel's failure to kill Seamus, the money for the club - what did any of it matter now? In the years they had been apart, neither had had an easy time of it. Brendan had sensed that Joel would find it in his heart to help him in the first few days, in a way that Cheryl could not.

She had been upset when he had asked her not to meet him on his release. She didn't understand the need for time to adjust, without affection or fuss. Brendan needed quiet, and to be used to quiet once more. Cheryl had accused him of freezing her out, the way he had on his previous release from prison. He had leant against the whitewashed prison wall next to the payphone he was using, pinching the top of his nose with two fingers in an attempt to stifle his irritation. It was the same, but it was different. Back then, he had been wrongly imprisoned and the terror and injustice of the situation had left Brendan feeling as though the walls were closing in on him, rendering him helpless. He had had to re-evaluate his life, as well as the people in it. So few people had believed in his innocence. Cheryl had, of course, and Lynsey -

Brendan took a painful inward breath, and tried to think of a way to explain how he felt to his sister.

"Look Chez. This isn't like last time. All I'm asking for is a few days to get my head around everything. You can understand that can't you?"

Cheryl had sniffed loudly, and Brendan wondered if she was crying. When she answered however, she sounded composed.

"Fine Bren. We'll do it your way. We always do anyway -"

"Chez..."

"No Bren, honestly. It's fine. It's better if you make the decisions for us. My big brother, he always knows what to do," she said softly, the previous composure beginning to crumble.

"Come and meet me Chez, yeah? Give me two days, and I'll meet you off the ferry in Liverpool. How does that sound?"

Brendan always compromised when it came to Cheryl. Now he was back in the village, he wished that he had stuck to his guns and taken more time for himself. He felt as though there was unfinished business all around him, people he needed to speak to, memories he needed to reacquaint himself with. Brendan had nearly been overwhelmed on that first walk through the village. He had to be able to control his emotions better. Especially if he truly did have any chance of closure.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Joel offered to take Brendan's battered holdall as they began their walk to his flat, but Brendan shook his head and clutched on to the straps tightly. A warm shiver flowed through his veins as the alcohol took effect. It nearly caused him to stumble, and he cursed prison life for the umpteenth time that day. Losing his tolerance for alcohol was a nuisance, as well as being a disadvantage in Brendan's chosen line of work. Glancing up at the club once more, he imagined himself casually leaning over the balcony, sharp grey suit encasing his body, a tumbler of whiskey balanced in his hands. Surveying his kingdom. The image was so powerful, so real, that Brendan paused in the street without Joel noticing, who carried on walking obliviously. Only when he had reached the bus stop did Joel turn around and call Brendan's name. When there was no response, Joel tutted and retraced his steps across the glistening wet pavement, grabbing Brendan's arm to get his attention. He was startled when Brendan turned to face him; his features wore a hunted look, as though he wasn't in the present.

"What is he looking at do you suppose?" Brendan asked, gesturing up to the empty Loft balcony. It was early evening and the club had not yet opened its doors. In fact, on account of the weather, the village was almost entirely deserted; only the lights from the corner shop suggested any life in the area at all. Joel glanced uneasily towards where Brendan was pointing.

"There's nothing there Brendan," he said, gripping the leather clad arm harder in an attempt to bring Brendan back to himself. Brendan blinked, his pupils dilated and eyes wide. He patted Joel's hand on his arm gently.

"That's where you're wrong Joel. Shadows of the past. They're everywhere. Can't escape them."

They stood clasped together for a while, looking up at the club that held so many memories for them both. Mostly bad, but with the occasional good one shining through the darkness. Joel for instance remembered learning to make cocktails under Brendan's bored gaze. The pride he had felt when Brendan had taken a sip and hummed in approval. The first flutter of recognition after the fiasco of meeting Warren, his biological father. It had taken less than a year for Joel to realise that biology wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Brendan's scathing disapproval and glimpses of affection were much easier to comprehend. At least Brendan had had no obligation to Joel, no need to pretend to be a guardian of any description. His time with Brendan had meant bruises, scars and close shaves with the law. But it had also given him for the briefest of times a sense of belonging, a family of sorts within the extended Brady clan.

Joel regarded the Brendan now in front of him. Intimidating as ever, yet underneath the surface there was a sense of something irreparable having been broken. Joel's own experiences of juvenile detention hadn't exactly been a joy, so he wondered what could happen to a person's mental state when serving a longer stretch in a high security facility.

"Brendan...are you alright?" he asked tentatively, watching as Brendan shook his head, as though he were trying to rid himself of the demons that had taken root there.

"I really need a drink Little Foxy," Brendan said, an undertone of fondness in the use of a long forgotten nickname. Joel smiled.

"Well, I have plenty of those in the flat. Come on."

They began to walk again in a more companionable silence. After a couple of minutes, Brendan realised the direction they were headed in.

"Joel, where exactly is it that you're staying these days?"

Joel glanced around nervously for traffic before crossing the road, jumping inelegantly to avoid a puddle in the cracked pavement on the other side.

"I'm only renting short term. Not many places to do that around here," he said, wondering how much Brendan knew about the block of flats that the man had once owned.

He was soon to find out. Brendan took in a huge breath, and gave Joel a questioning look. The apartments in front of him looked to be no more than a year or two old. Modern architecture and a complex intercom system had replaced the broken fences and out of order buzzers that Brendan recalled. Panic bubbled in his gut. This was no good. He squeezed his eyes shut until they hurt, but he couldn't conjure the image he wanted of the flats as they had once been. No soil where Leah had constructed her bug motel. No flimsy rusted gate where Steven had stood asking Brendan the absurd question of why he would choose to take a bullet for him. No gravelled driveway where Amy had declared her pity for him, her prediction of him being alone forever ringing in his ears despite his outward affected nonchalance. Conversations through cracked front windows when things had been really bad and Steven refused to even let him cross the threshold.

This was the place where he had been happiest. The grotty, neglected nest of buildings had been his sanctuary, his home. He had been loved in those flats. He opened his eyes. They were gone, and no amount of regret or grief could change that.

Joel busied himself with typing in the keycode, leading Brendan wordlessly up a spotless hallway and a sterile flight of stairs. Thankfully Joel's place was on the first floor, so Brendan was able to block any further reminisces for the time being. As Joel opened the door to apartment eight, he kicked away a pair of grubby trainers that had been haphazardly kicked off in the hall the previous day. He began to turn lights on in the open plan living area, bending down to pick up empty beer cans that were scattered like confetti on the coffee table and surrounding floor.

"Make yourself at home. As you've seen, after the explosion the developers completely redesigned the place -"

"Explosion?" Brendan asked, dusting off one of the suede grey couches in the lounge before sitting down, shrugging off his jacket and slinging it across the seat next to him.

"Mmhmm. Didn't Cheryl tell you?"

Brendan growled. Yet another event she felt he needed 'protecting' from.

"Yes Joel. This is the face of somebody in the know."

Joel bent behind the kitchen counter for a moment, before re-emerging with a bottle of vodka and two mismatched glasses.

"Only ones I've got clean. So a while back, there was a gas leak. It was bad, pretty much the whole building went up. I wasn't here then so I don't know the ins and outs, but I do know that they decided the flats were unsalvageable. They knocked the whole lot down and started from scratch. It's a big improvement if you ask me."

"I didn't," Brendan muttered as Joel sat on top of his jacket, sloshing vodka in and around the glasses he had placed on the table. Brendan rolled his eyes and dragged his jacket out from underneath Joel's arse, before grabbing the vodka bottle out of his hands.

"Jesus Joel. Why I ever thought you'd make a competent barman, I'll never know."

He topped the glasses up with more grace than Joel had done, and handed one to him without ceremony. Not his drink of choice, but beggars can't be choosers. Brendan knocked back the contents of the wine glass Joel had assigned to him with less spluttering than his previous drink, but his face still contorted into a grimace as the heat burnt at his throat.

"What happened to all the people who lived here before the explosion?" Brendan asked with exaggerated casualness. Joel sniggered into his glass, almost causing a coughing fit when he accidentally inhaled a drop of vodka.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh come on Brendan. We both know what you're really asking. After all this time, you're still hung up on him? Really?"

Brendan paused, overwhelmed by a flashback of his own words -

 _"There is nothing you could do, that would make me stop loving you. Nothing..."_

"Let me ask you this, Joel," Brendan said, pouring more liquid into his glass, "do you feel any differently for Theresa? After all this time, as you put it?"

Joel's teasing expression at once turned to stone.

"Theresa is dead. Gone. It's not the same. It's not the same at all."

Tense silence filled the room. Brendan had the good grace to lower his head in embarrassment.

Of course it was not the same. No matter how much Brendan had allowed grief to overwhelm him at losing Steven, at least he could console himself with the knowledge that he was out there, living his life. Healthy, if not happy. He had begged Cheryl to keep an eye out for him, to tell him if there was ever any hint of him being in danger. Cheryl had reluctantly agreed. Yet she had failed to tell Brendan about an explosion at the block of flats Steven had lived in. What else might she have kept from him? His thoughts returned to the prematurely terminated voicemail he had listened to earlier this evening. Brendan's heart plummeted and thumped erratically, and he grasped his glass tightly as though he were drowning and it was his life raft. Joel saw the change in Brendan and smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

"Ste's fine Brendan. We're not bosom buddies or anything, but I've seen him about since I've been back. He doesn't live here anymore though, I'm pretty sure of that. Guess he'd have lost a lot when the flats were destroyed."

Brendan offered a silent prayer of thanks to God, whilst feeling a wave of sadness for Steven. He had been so fiercely proud of his little home, falling apart at the seams though it was. He had loved being able to provide a safe place for his children. Brendan was reminded of the Christmas they had shared and the unbridled glee on Steven's face as he had wrapped up present after present, cellotape strewn around the room, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth in concentration as he folded brightly coloured wrapping into haphazard, treasured parcels.

Unlike so many others that had taken up residence in his head, the memory was a good one, and left Brendan with a smile on his face. Joel registered the switch in mood and judged the time to be ripe for a quick exit. He reappeared from the bedroom, flinging a pillow and a flimsy bedsheet at Brendan,

"Here you go. Sorry, but I'm not willing to give up my bed. Big day tomorrow and all."

Brendan glanced at Joel. He was clearly drunk, but that hadn't managed to entirely mask the scared little boy underneath Joel's bravado. Before Brendan could ask further questions, Joel retreated into his room and shut the door between them firmly.


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Now alone, Brendan sifted through the recollections he had of his most recent conversations with Cheryl, in order to try and pinpoint Joel's most pressing problem.

"Bren, you've got to realise, Joel is vulnerable. I won't have you scare him -"

"Jesus Chez, what am I, the big bad wolf? Give it a rest will you, it was a long time ago. Too much water under the whatever..."

"It's been a long time, that's true enough. But Warren has only just died Bren. I know there was no love lost between them, but it's still his dad when all's said and done. You need to cut him some slack..."

"So...you think he really is dead this time?"

"Brendan!"

"Okay, okay, just asking. Chez look, it might sound crazy, but I want to help him."

* * *

 _"Why do you want to help him Brendan?"_

 _Brendan faces Mark, who is staring at him in that way that he does from the safety of his armchair, fiddling with his pen in that way that Brendan finds intensely irritating. He is certain that it is done for that very reason. Mark has a slight upturn quirk to his mouth, and Brendan idly considers what it would be like to put his lips against that smirk. Or his fist. He's undecided at this juncture which he would prefer. Brendan shrugs, fiddling with his shirt buttons for something to do. Mark frowns, leaning forward and balancing his chin on the bridge of his hands._

 _"It's not a difficult question Brendan. You are being released from prison, and the one person you have mentioned in connection with this momentous event is Joel. And earlier in the session you suggested that your presence was somehow going to be a help to him? Forgive me, I'm a little confused."_

 _Brendan grits his teeth and picks up his water glass from the table in front of him. He has spent so many sessions playing with the glass, considering its weak spots, wondering how easily he could plough the shards of broken glass into his own jugular. Now though, he takes a sip and returns it to the table, before stretching his limbs out across the couch in a way he has learnt Mark finds 'disarming'. The casual, flippant body language is as ever a dark mirror at odds with the words that escape Brendan's mouth._

 _"Well, doc. Me and Joel, we got history."_

 _Mark smiles his irritating smug smile and sits back in his chair once more._

 _"I imagined as much Brendan, believe it or not. Care to enlighten me further?"_

 _Sometimes, Brendan sits in this quasi cosy office and ponders what would happen if he began screaming at the top of his lungs. Would he be taken away, be committed for being a danger to himself (whatever that means)? Or would the good doctor allow it, listen whilst Brendan let himself feel everything he had always blocked out, listen whilst he howled and raged against humanity? Would Mark crouch down next to his couch as he cried, would he hold him in the way that Brendan needed? Would he let Brendan lean him over the desk and -_

 _He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. He's certain that if it was possible for doctors to read minds, he would end up on a closed ward until the end of his days. Mark coughs his "please continue" cough._

 _"Joel was only eighteen when he arrived in the village you know. He was young and angry. And naïve. He thought Warren would be the answer to all of his problems-"_

 _"Are you talking about Warren Fox?"_

 _"Good memory doc," Brendan smirks, and Mark blushes slightly, "thing is, Joel didn't get what he needed from Daddy Foxy. Turns out that, surprise surprise, he wasn't the model father figure Joel had built him up to be -"_

 _"And you were?"_

 _"Ouch. Hurts my feelings when you use that tone with me doc. Yeah, okay, so I felt I could do the kid a favour. Teach him a few things. Act as a mentor to navigate him through the mad bad world of business ownership."_

 _Mark laces his fingers together and leans towards Brendan again._

 _"That's quite a simplistic view of the situation you're presenting there. Because the reality is, you had to deal with Joel, didn't you? He had control of half of your club after all."_

 _Brendan inwardly flinches, but outwardly flicks his hand in a gesture which suggests it doesn't matter._

 _"My club was my club. Danny Houston, Foxy, Little Foxy for that matter - they never came into it. Joel turned out to be the worst of them all, emotional, reckless; a liability. Came with a tonne of baggage."_

 _Mark tries to stifle a laugh, and Brendan raises an eyebrow._

 _"A sense of humour doc? Who'd have thought it. What I mean by that is that Joel's baggage was incompatible with mine. When I asked Joel to kill my father for example -"_

 _"Brendan -"_

 _"I know, I know. He didn't though, doc. I mean, obviously you're aware of that," Brendan says, hysterical laughter accompanying his increasingly shrill, manic tone_.

 _"He refused, good little boy that he was. I blamed him. I wasn't in the best place at the time. I told him to leave the village and to never return."_

 _"I hate to think what terms surrounded that 'arrangement'."_

 _"Oh believe me, doc, you want to leave it there," Brendan whispers under his breath. In any other setting, his tone might be read as seductive._

 _"You still haven't answered my original question, Brendan."_

 _"Which was? Not my fault that you keep digressing."_

 _Mark smiles a tight, impatient smile. For someone in his line of work, Mark shows his emotions far too easily for Brendan's liking._

 _"Emotions make you vulnerable."_

 _"Excuse me?" Mark says, looking up from his scrawled notes made in a prison regulation notebook. Brendan tenses a little; sometimes his thoughts become words with very little warning. He reckons that at this moment in time, he'd make a lousy criminal. Oh the irony._

 _"Nothing doc. Couple of weeks ago, Chez came to visit," Brendan says, and Mark's eyebrows shoot up in surprise._

 _"Cheryl visited? When? You haven't mentioned it..."_

 _"Do I have to tell you everything? You have access to my visitor records anyway don't you? Didn't think it was a secret."_

 _Mark curses himself for his lack of preparation for today's session. Brady unnerves him, and he often finds himself filled with unease as their scheduled slot approaches. The man in front of him has no filter, but at the same time is a closed book; a difficult combination for any therapist to unpick._

 _"Of course, you're right, I'm sorry. Please continue."_

 _"As I'm sure you do know, Chez doesn't visit often. So when she does, I know something's up..."_

* * *

Cheryl in the visiting hall was one of the oddest, almost anachronistic sights Brendan had ever seen. In a monochromatic room full of lifeless grey, in she would burst with a riot of wonderful, inappropriate colour. Although he didn't allow her to visit as often as she requested, Brendan looked forward to the occasional, carefully rationed appearances. Cheryl's leopard printed, sequin studded outfits alone added much needed light to his life.

The normal procedure for visits with his sister was as follows: meaningless small talk followed by a catastrophic bombshell or two. On the occasion Brendan had been relaying to Mark, Cheryl had sat awkwardly with her long legs crossed in the uncomfortable plastic chair across from him, Brendan sensing there was big news to impart. She fiddled with her cherry red cardigan and uncrossed her legs, studiously avoiding Brendan's eyes all the while.

"For fucks sake Chez, will you sit still? What's the matter with you?"

Cheryl jumped a little at Brendan's tone, as she recrossed her legs and laid her hands carefully in her lap.

"Warren Fox..."

"Really? You start with that? Jesus sis, I thought you'd come to cheer me up -"

"Just listen Bren will you please. Warren - he - well, he died. Last week."

Brendan whistled and sat back in his chair, brushing his hand through his overgrown mane of hair. He wasn't sure how he felt about her news. There was certainly no love lost between him and Warren, but had he wished him dead?

"Wow. Okay. That's - nothing to do with me, Chez, before you ask. Unfortunately."

Cheryl gave him a warning glare across the table and Brendan looked away, wiping the forced air of brevity from his expression.

"Don't say things like that. Not when we are _this_ close to you getting out..."

"We? Forgive me Chez, but I don't recall you attending any fucking therapy sessions, or spending god knows how many nights behind bars to secure 'our' release," Brendan said flippantly, before catching the distress on Cheryl's face. He reached across the table and pulled her hands into his.

"I'm sorry Chez. I didn't mean that. I'm just so sick of -"

"I know-"

"And I just want to be -"

"I know," Cheryl repeated firmly, squeezing Brendan's hand to emphasise the point. They shared a long look, exchanging emotions rather than words, and all was right between them once more. It never took much; they had been through too much for grudges. Cheryl let go of Brendan's hands and began examining her nails.

"Anyway, I wanted to tell you because Joel got in touch to let me know, wants me to go to the funeral. He sounded so lost on the phone. Told me that he's going to have to spend some time in the village, because Warren named him executor of his estate and he needs to get everything sorted. It's sad -"

Brendan let out a humourless laugh at that.

"I hardly think there'll be many people shedding a tear over Foxy's demise sis."

"That's what I mean really. Imagine being so unpopular, so hated, even by those who are supposed to love you, that when you die all people feel is relief."

"Terrible," Brendan muttered. Him and Warren had been so alike - too alike in many ways. It was horrifying to think of the reaction to Warren's death for that reason - it too closely mirrored Brendan's perception of his own demise. Who would care? Worst of all, would people feel relief, as Cheryl had said? Despite the turmoil these thoughts led to, Cheryl's visit had furnished Brendan with a key piece of information. Joel would be in Hollyoaks when Brendan was released.

* * *

 _"I guess I feel that in some way I owe him. It seemed like a twist of fate."_

 _Mark studies Brendan's emotionless face and considers the story._

 _"When you say you 'owe' him. Are you referring to Joel? Or to Warren?"_

 _Brendan laughs and brushes the side of Mark's knee with his foot accidentally on purpose. He has spent months committing these minor accidents because of Mark's reaction the first time Brendan tried it. Attraction - more specifically illicit attraction - was something of a speciality of his after all. He was right about emotions; they make you vulnerable to manipulation._

 _Mark coughs again and shuffles so that he is further away from Brendan._

 _"Anyway, I asked Cheryl to get in touch with Joel for me, asked him whether he'd meet with me when I got out. She was nervous about it. She's got a soft spot for the boy."_

 _"Why would she be nervous about it?"_

 _"Because Joel got into some scrapes back when we were...associates," Brendan says, watching as Mark flicks back through his notes._

 _"Ah yes. An admission to hospital for a stab wound. Unexplained disappearance of his stepfather..."_

 _"Not to mention being kidnapped and tied to a dud grenade -"_

 _"Brendan -" Mark begins in an exasperated tone, but Brendan holds his hands up in mock surrender, miming a zip across his mouth._


	5. Chapter 5

5.

Alone for the first time in years, Brendan was unsure how much time had passed. His thoughts would not allow him the release of sleep. From the room adjacent to the one he was in, he heard the echo of Joel's soft snores, and felt a dart of envy that the boy could sleep so peacefully.

He considered again why Cheryl had been so nervous about Joel and Brendan's arrangement to meet. He suspected that perhaps her apprehension wasn't really for Joel's sake at all. The truth was, since his arrest and subsequent sentencing, Cheryl was the only person from the past that he had allowed to contact him. In return she had grudgingly kept him up to speed with some of the events from the outside world, but Brendan knew she worried that this news would somehow have the power to plunge Brendan further into darkness. Cheryl believed that he should make a clean break; looking forward to his future rather than back into a life he had been so abruptly removed from.

Brendan poured a larger vodka into his glass and sat back on Joel's borrowed couch, closing his eyes and leaning his head right back to face the ceiling. He supposed Cheryl was right really. But it was easier for her to look to the future. After all, for Cheryl, the future meant comfort, no money worries, marriage, perhaps children. All of the unpleasantness that had occurred could be dismissed because her best days were still ahead. Brendan could not say the same about himself. What if there was nothing left but loneliness and misery? The trip to the village had brought emotions hurtling out of every corner of his fragile mind and he wasn't sure if he could survive the onslaught. For Brendan to be able to move on, as Cheryl wished him to, he knew that however painful, he would have to lay the ghosts of his past to rest for good.

* * *

Joel woke to his alarm blaring in his ear obnoxiously, his head pounding with a vodka hangover. Swearing to himself, he crawled out of bed and reached for the grey t shirt he had abandoned on the floor the previous day. As he yawned and stretched his way into the living room, Joel nearly jumped out of his skin as he encountered Brendan still sitting bolt upright on the sofa, holding his glass and staring into the distance.

"Jesus Brendan! You gave me a heart attack. Normal people lie down to sleep you know."

Brendan turned and looked at Joel.

"What time is it?"

Joel filled the kettle through it's spout, spraying water all over his t shirt in the process.

"Just gone nine."

"In the morning?"

"Was it the daylight coming through the window that gave it away?"

Brendan blinked slowly, following Joel's gesture at the window opposite him uncomprehendingly. Joel stared at him from across the kitchen counter.

"Brendan...have you not slept?"

"Not tired," Brendan said, placing his glass next to the now empty vodka bottle. Joel followed the action, but he said nothing, waiting for the kettle to boil. He padded over and placed a cup of steaming hot coffee in front of Brendan, and sat down opposite clutching his own mug.

"Thanks," Brendan said quietly, picking up the cup and blowing on it noisily.

"So...plans for today?" Joel asked, politely ignoring Brendan's treatment of the coffee.

"Figure I might go and visit Lynsey. How about yourself?"

Joel frowned, trying and failing to avoid thinking about the task that lay ahead of him.

"Actually, today's the will reading. For Warren. Thought you knew."

Brendan shrugged and slurped coffee through his teeth.

"Chez might've mentioned it. So you want any company?"

Joel's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"You want to come? Really?"

"Well it's not exactly my idea of a fun day out, but if you want me to, then yeah. I'll go with you."

"No. It's fine. Besides, it's what? Day two of freedom?" Brendan held up two fingers and nodded, "so sure the last thing you want to do is sit in a solicitor's office all day."

"If you're sure. Am I alright to use the bathroom?"

"Yeah, course. Second door on the left."

Brendan picked up his untouched holdall from where he had abandoned it the night before and left the room. Joel picked up the empty bottle from the night before and tutted. Something told him it was going to be a long day for them both.

* * *

Lynsey's spot was a peaceful one. Chosen by Cheryl, she was at rest underneath the shade of a magnificent oak tree that was bordered with daffodils around it's gnarled base. It was set back from the path quite a way, so all that broke the silence most days was the occasional musical rift of birdsong. After the storm the day before, the ground was still damp and fragrant with the scent of new rain. The cloud cover was beginning to shift; rays of the sun were working tirelessly to break through the gaps.

Brendan crouched down, hands clasped together, leather jacket creaking as it tightened across his shoulders. The grave itself was immaculately maintained; Brendan guessed that it had been visited recently, as an array of colourful tulips were standing proudly in the grave's vase. The granite was polished and shone, the picture Cheryl had chosen of Lynsey for the headstone was without a blemish. Brendan stared at the photograph longingly.

"Hi Lynsey. Sorry that I haven't got to see you before now. I wanted to, but...you know how it is. I hope you understand. Why I did what I did. I had to protect Chez. Had to save her, you know? Like I should have been able to save you..."

Brendan felt his eyes burning, and he had to look away. Real men don't cry, Seamus had said time and time again. The remembrance forced a pained shudder to course through him. He looked up at the sky instead, feeling a single tear spill and fall down his face. Fuck Seamus, he thought.

"I wish you were here Lynsey. I could do with your advice about now. You know what Chez can be like, she wants everyone to be so fucking happy all the time, even me, isn't that the funniest thing you've ever heard? She wants me to move on, and I can't tell her the truth. What if I can't move on? I'm frightened Lynsey."

Brendan heard voices in the distance. A family were approaching a grave a few rows over. A young woman with two small children; one a boy and the other a girl. The girl was doing all of the talking, her blonde hair gleaming in the dappled sunlight, and Brendan was reminded so powerfully of Leah that it made his heart hurt. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the weight of her in his arms, the comforting smell of strawberry shampoo as he kissed her hair for the last time. If he had known it was going to be the last time, he would have held on longer. Squeezed a little tighter.

Brendan stood up and crossed his arms across his chest protectively, looking back now at Lynsey's smiling face. He wondered if she would have been proud of him for finally making a go of things with Steven. His attempts at being a better father. A better person. He wondered if she would have spotted something about Brendan's relationship with Seamus if she had lived to see his arrival into the village. Everything might have been different if Lynsey had lived. He stroked the granite image tenderly, trying to block out the memory of seeing her lifeless eyes and the unbridled panic he had felt in the moment he had discovered her.

"Codladh samh," he whispered, and with a final sniff and a brief wipe of his face with a hand, turned to leave.

* Codladh samh = Gaelic for 'sleep well'


	6. Chapter 6

6.

The probation office in Chester was housed in a grim building near the courts. A grey slab that blighted the skyline, Brendan wondered why all places that had to do with the law had to be so depressing. He shoved a crumpled bit of paperwork into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. There wasn't anything on it that he hadn't expected. No leaving the country of course, notification of any changes of address, regular meetings with the probation officer, and his therapy sessions. Brendan had groaned out loud at the last one. When Mark had told him that continuing his treatment was part of the conditions for his release, Brendan had nearly told them to forget it, he'd rather stay inside. On reflection though, two sessions a month seemed like a worthwhile price to pay for relative freedom. That didn't mean he had to like it. Brendan decided to deal with therapy in the way he dealt with all of the unpleasantness he had encountered in life; by turning it into a game.

* * *

 _He supposes most gay men would be glad to be assigned to the doctor that greets him at the door to his office. Full, white teethed smile and a gelled auburn quiff make Brendan look twice. Slightly shorter than Brendan, but with clearly defined muscles visible through the open necked white shirt he has on. Brendan guesses the man is a cyclist. he ventures into the office, sitting in a plush leather armchair before being asked to. And that's when he sees it: an admiring glance from the good doctor. Brendan doesn't bother to hide his smirk._

 _"It's Brendan isn't it? I'm Doctor Mark Phillips, and we'll be working together pretty regularly for now on."_

 _"I can hardly contain my anticipation," Brendan says in a tone dripping with sarcasm. Mark continues as though Brendan hasn't spoken._

 _"Because you need to feel comfortable within the confines of this room, I'd like to spend our first session setting up some ground rules. I'll go first. I dislike using titles, I think it creates an unnecessary barrier between us. So, in here at least, I'd like it if you would call me Mark. Your turn."_

 _Brendan is delighted that he has been given such an easy in._

 _"Well doc, being as how there most certainly_ is _a barrier between us, I would prefer it if we maintain the title. Your move, doc."_

 _Mark purses his lips in irritation, feeling the sting of Brendan's manipulation._

 _"I would guess that you're a man who is used to having his own way Brendan, am I right?"_

 _Brendan cocks his head to the side in mock consideration._

 _"I like control, doc. Admittedly in my current day to day existence it's not something I have much of. Have to make the most of...opportunities where I can."_

 _"What happens when you don't feel in control?"_

 _Brendan's knuckles tingle with the ghost of every beating he has ever dished out. Steven's bloodstained, heartbroken face flashes into his brain. He pushes the errant image away and smiles at Mark maniacally._

 _"What happens? People get hurt doc, that's what happens."_

 _Mark glances at the folder that is open on his knee. Brendan can see his photo and a block of writing that is, presumably, a list of his transgressions._

 _"Yes," Mark says thoughtfully, "so I see."_

* * *

"Chez?"

"Brendan - hey. I've been trying to get hold of you for the past two days."

Brendan had gone back to Joel's apartment after the probation office, but had found it empty. Unable to stand the oppressive silence that hung in the air, Brendan had made a hasty exit. On exploration of the manicured grounds of the apartment blocks, he had uncovered a rather charming communal garden set at the back of the main building, abundant flowerbeds and water features aplenty. Overwhelmed by a sudden flood of exhaustion, Brendan had sat on one of the immaculate wooden benches framing the garden, and reluctantly took out his phone. Another three missed calls from his sister. Brendan had taken a deep breath and summoned up courage he wasn't sure he possessed from somewhere in his gut. Cheryl answered on the second ring. Brendan sat holding his head in one of his hands, rubbing his eyes and forehead with his fingers as though to ease the inevitable tension this phone call would cause.

"Look Chez, I've been busy, okay? I've been with Joel, met with my probation officer. And this morning I went to see Lynsey..."

There was an audible intake of breath on the line as he uttered Lynsey's name.

"How is she?"

"Thought you may have visited recently? Beautiful flowers about, clean as a whistle."

Cheryl was silent for more than a moment. Brendan wondered if she was mimicking his pained, anxious body language back in Ireland.

"No. I haven't been recently. I mean, not since I visited you last. Maybe Eoghan -"

"Yeah. Anyway. Looks good Chez, that's all I meant."

"How's Joel holding up?"

Brendan considered the young man that had been so forgiving; welcoming. He tried to think of a way to assemble his impression in a comprehensible way.

"He's - he seems okay. Quiet. I stayed at his last night, so."

"And did you ask him if he was coping okay Bren?"

"Fucks sake. I'm not his mother. Joel says he's fine, he's fine."

"Good to hear you're as supportive as ever, eh Bren?" said Cheryl, a bitter lace threading her voice. Brendan felt a bubble of anger, but quickly forced it back down. Cheryl was right. How many times had he lied and scammed his way out of conversations he was uncomfortable having, simply because they involved emotions? The one conversation Brendan _should_ have had haunted him. Walker had been able to exploit his emotional limitations and cause the catastrophic damage that followed. The USB stick that he left for Cheryl only made the explosive impact it did because of his inability to broach it with his sister in the first place.

Hyperventilation seemed like an appropriate response to these memories of before Brendan's confession. Despite sitting in the early evening sun's glow that held no trace of the previous day's rain, Brendan felt chilled. Sunny days reminded him too much of things he would rather forget. He recalled one of the summers that was spent at the Morecambe holiday home. Every day had seemed to consist of glorious sunshine, a light ticklish breeze ensuring neither he or Cheryl ended up too warm. The temptation to splash in the foaming, salty waves was so strong when the weather seemed to almost invite it. Most importantly, it had just been Brendan, Cheryl and Nana. Brendan had felt invincible, the triumphant glaze of red cape behind him dancing in the sand signified freedom in a way that nothing else did that summer.

One night after removing his cape, trail of sand on the hallway floor, Brendan overheard a phone call. The significance of it did not impress itself until later. Nana stood in the kitchen, gripping the wires of the phone in one hand wretchedly, whilst holding it up to her ear with the other. Brendan heard the false, frantic jollity in her tone as she laughed and cajoled and _begged_ her son to give her one more week on her own with the grandchildren.

Her pleas fell on deaf ears, of course. At the time, Cheryl had pouted at Brendan and called him a spoilsport. Later, she referred to the fact that his smile disappeared when Seamus had turned up, and she couldn't understand why. Another missed opportunity to confide in her. As a child, Brendan had forgiven her lack of comprehension of her brother's discomfort. Now, he believed that Cheryl was well and truly making up for lost time. She was almost overly committed, not just to Brendan, but to everyone who had ever been important to him. In his sister's head, this seemed to include Joel.

Brendan felt Cheryl's horror and mortification filter down the phone line, his mouth quirked upwards with anticipation for the next gem that would leave her mouth. Instead, he was treated to a long staggered sigh, paving the way for a flood of guilt and remorse to wash over him. His hand clutched at his mobile in a death grip and it began to shake with the force of it. A premonition of walls closing back in on him, being alone again left him without breath.

"Chez - I'm sorry, okay? I'm not good with - kids."

"Joel isn't a kid Bren."

"Really? Try telling that to my brain. In there, Joel is perpetually eighteen years old."

He felt a small release of tension when Cheryl sniggered a little at Brendan's words. Sensing a way forward in the conversation, Brendan leant forwards and planted his elbows into his knees. To his right there was a weathered stone monument housing the most colourful array of fuchsia Brendan could remember seeing. He watched as a number of fluffy bumblebees burrowed their way into the magenta flowers, before emerging sticky with pollen and flying away across the neighbouring fence. The world goes on, Brendan thought, as one of his fingers traced the tattooed cross on his arm absentmindedly.

"I didn't really call to discuss Joel, Chez. You'll see him tomorrow anyway won't you? You can grill him yourself then."

"Okay. In that case I can guess what this is about. Honestly, there's not much I can tell you that I didn't already say in the voicemail."

"Well, I'm glad we never relied on you making phone calls and leaving voicemails when we were running our business Chez, that's all I can say?"

"Pardon me?"

"The voicemail cut out halfway through. Or what I assume was halfway through. How did you not notice? Did you just carry on talking anyway? Bet you did. Don't know why I'm surprised."

Brendan could practically hear the blush blossoming on Cheryl's cheeks.

"How much did you hear?"

"Just you rambling on about some meaningless shite. It cut off just as you were saying something about -"

"Ste?"

"Steven," Brendan automatically corrected, and then shuddered. It had been a long time since that name had passed his lips. Steven had lived in Brendan's mind alone, and the thought of resurrecting him into his every day existence was thrilling, yet terrifying.

"He works in the village Bren. I was worried you were going to bump into him and not be prepared. I knew you'd hate that."

Brendan frowned, confusion gathering as he replayed his experience a day earlier. Already it seemed like a lifetime ago.

"I went past the deli. Didn't see him. The name's changed."

"Yeah, that's because he doesn't work there anymore. He sold it a year or two ago."

"Why?"

"I don't know Bren, why don't you ask him?"

"That's - that's funny Chez. You're a real comedian."

"Well what do you want me to say? I guess that after Doug left he didn't want to do it on his own," Cheryl said, exasperation rising. Brendan felt her words breaking his skin, wounding him, as his own thoughts often had so many times before. It was Brendan's fault that Steven had to 'do it on his own', after all. Brendan had been there, promising to never leave, to support him. Yet those promises had crumbled to dust in the wake of the choice he had made to protect Cheryl.

"Always the bad guy ain't I? Even when I try to get it right."

"Don't be self pitying love, it doesn't suit you. It was probably for the best anyhow. He's a head chef now, restaurant doing really well. He's dead proud of it. And - he's met someone."

There it was. The punch in the gut that Brendan had been waiting for. It wasn't unexpected. It would have been hard to believe that someone like Steven would ever have been on his own for long. Brendan himself had insisted that Steven move on, although the knowledge that he had done so undeniably hurt more now that it was confirmed.

Brendan had clearly been silent for too long, because Cheryl began speaking in her nervous, rapid fire manner that meant she was uncomfortable. It almost raised a smile on Brendan's lips. Almost.

"You see. I knew you'd be unhappy Bren. I knew it and I didn't want to tell you, but how could I not, when there was a chance you'd see and - I know you told him to go live his life, and well, that's what he is doing. Oh love, you should see him. He's really happy. Everything is going so well for him -"

"And you're worried I'm going to turn up and ruin that? Jesus Cheryl, what do you take me for?"

Brendan could hear his sister shuffling uncomfortably at the other end of the line.

"Well, it wouldn't exactly be the first time."

That was it in a nutshell. Every time there had been a sign of Steven being happy without him, Brendan had swept in and callously dismantled it. Rae? Lied to and pushed aside. Noah? Relocated without a second thought? Doug? A tougher nut to crack certainly, but even after the barrier of marriage, Brendan had still vaulted over it, victorious. The intensity of his love for Steven had been unrelenting, a tidal wave that had destroyed everything in its path. Reason had flown out of the window for both of them, and Brendan had difficulty remembering a time before Steven was everything.

The idea of having to hand Steven control of his own life before Brendan was taken away had been one of the toughest acts of his life. Steven had to be able to survive without him, because he would no longer be there to help (or hinder). The sheer strength of will it had taken to deny visiting applications. The stubbornness that had been required to return every letter and gift unopened. After a while, the number of requests dwindled. And some time after that, they ceased entirely. It was a relief, but also left Brendan in a painful limbo. He both hoped and feared that Steven would forget about him. He could not summon the courage to ask Cheryl the question he dreaded the answer to - has he moved on? Is he happy without me? Now, for better or worse, Brendan had his answer.

"I won't meddle Chez. I asked him to get on with living his life. I can't hold it against him that he actually listened to me for a change, can I?"

Cheryl sighed as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders; the weight now firmly pressed down on Brendan instead. He took the opportunity of the pause to change the subject, making arrangements to meet his sister from the ferry the following day, grasping on to her excitement and trying to take some for himself. Desperately trying to ignore the agony of his heart cracking into pieces in the hollow of his chest.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thank you to those who are reading this story and to the guest reviews saying nice things about it - much appreciated! Please do continue to leave feedback, it really makes the writing process worthwhile. Just in case anyone is wondering, Ste will play a major part in the later part of this story, but there's still a little way to go until he appears...**

 **Also, in my head at least, Joel is the original one rather than his new incarnation!**

* * *

7.

The light was fading by the time Brendan returned to the flat. The beginnings of dusk meant that Brendan didn't notice Joel until he had switched the living area lights on.

"Jesus Joel, you almost gave me a heart attack! What are you doing sitting in the dark?"

Joel sat in the middle of the couch, a fluffy purple cushion incongruously clutched to his chest in a protective gesture. There were tear tracks on both sides of his face, and once he registered he was being addressed, he almost stared right through Brendan. Brendan shook his head and shrugged out of his jacket, silently praying for the patience to deal with somebody else's trauma. Casually, he searched through each sleek white kitchen cabinet, leaving finger marks on the polished handles, until he found Joel's alcohol stash. Making a mental note to purchase some whiskey, Brendan deposited himself in the armchair nearest Joel and slammed the vodka down on the coffee table. He noticed Joel thrusting a floppy forest green folder across the table top towards him. The cover had a golden embossed coat of arms stamped into it, a symbol of authority and officiousness that was bound to mean trouble.

"The last will and testament of Warren James Fox," Joel explained, picking up the proffered vodka and slurping directly from the bottle top. Brendan touched the edge of the folder carefully as though it was an unpredictable wild creature, watching Joel chase oblivion out of the corner of his eye.

"Foxy made a will? Very organised of him."

Joel snorted.

"Yeah...organised. Not really the word I'd use for it."

"Okay. What word would you use then Joel?"

Joel sighed aggressively and gestured at the offending document.

"Just read it for yourself Brendan. You of all people should understand how much of a head fuck this is."

Brendan leafed through the pages uneasily, eyes skimming the mountains of legal terminology for anything familiar. Once he'd found it, he had to read through a second time, and then a third, just in case he had missed something. The unmistakable signature of Warren Fox at the bottom of the page seemed to be mocking both Brendan and Joel. After their attempts to rid themselves of Warren's influence in life, it seemed that in death Warren was not having any of it. Instinctively Brendan snatched the bottle out of Joel's unresisting grip and chugged nosisily on the neck, hoping to smother the riot of thoughts inside his head.

"What the hell is this Joel?"

Joel laughed a humourless laugh at Brendan's dismayed and confused reaction.

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I checked everything with the solicitor. Asked him to double check the contracts. It's completely legit."

"Interesting choice of phrase. Forgive me if I find it hard to believe. I had no idea -"

"No-one did. Turns out that he planned it that way. Right until the end he managed to be a manipulative bastard."

Brendan threw the folder away from him. It landed on the table, open at the offending page in question. Joel had been left everything - a car, property and the remaining balance of a number of bank accounts. And then, there was Warren's latest acquisition. The Loft nightclub in Hollyoaks village.

"I spent so long trying to rid myself of the fucking place. I didn't want any ties to everything that happened there. Just when I'm getting myself straight, getting my life back together, I'm landed with this."

"Foxy always did have one sick sense of humour," Brendan said, rubbing his face in his hands.

"Not this time. I'm not letting him have the last laugh. Not this time."

The steely determination set on Joel's face made Brendan uneasy.

"Listen Joel, I know it's rich coming from me, but don't be hasty. Don't do anything stupid -"

"I'm not Brendan. It's not stupid. It's genius. I can't think of anything else that he would hate more. You want to stay in the village? Fine. Stay. And I'll sign the Loft over to you. It's yours. I'm done with it."

Joel flung the bottle down and without so much as a glance at Brendan left the room. Brendan whistled and sat back, shock rippled through his core. The Loft, Chez Chez, whatever he wanted to call it. It was within his grasp, just like that. Easier than scattering a dandelion clock into the wind. And from the most unlikely source - Warren Fox. Brendan raised the vodka bottle to the ceiling in a silent salute to his rival. It looked like Joel was right. The last laugh would be on him.

* * *

 _"Tell me about the club."_

 _Brendan pauses in his fiddling with the Rubik's cube in his lap to cock his head at Mark's question. He is momentarily caught off guard._

 _"The club?"_

 _Mark rifles through his notes in that infuriating overly casual way he has. Brendan waits._

 _"Yes...Chez Chez is it?"_

 _Brendan winces at the mispronunciation. Mark knows perfectly well what the club is called. If Brendan could just grab those notes from Mark's smug grasp, tear them to pieces, set alight to them, chew them and swallow them and digest them until they are a part of him..._

 _Brendan recommences his attempt at solving the cube._

 _"It's Chez. You pronounce the 'z' in the second part."_

 _"Ah...ah I see, as in -"_

 _"As in Chez. Cheryl. My sister? Slow on the uptake today doc."_

 _"That's...unusual. How did you come up with that name?"_

 _"Me? Seriously?" Brendan points at himself, poking himself in the chest, eyes wide in mock indignation. Mark swallows a sigh. Brendan has worked out that this gesture is his version of counting to ten to calm down. He takes great pleasure in pushing Mark to do this on a regular basis. So far his record is fourteen in one session alone. The Rubik's cube is abandoned on the table; Brendan decides to take pity on the doctor for once._

 _"Cheryl bought the club when she won some money. I helped her manage it, until I got the cash together to buy her out."_

 _"Was it important for you to buy her out? Why would you need to do that, if it was her business?"_

 _"She didn't really want the responsibility, the novelty wore off. Chez, she's...she's great at the marketing side of things. You know, theme nights, decorations, getting in popular DJs. All of that was Cheryl's thing."_

 _Mark considers Brendan thoughtfully._

 _"And what was your 'thing', Brendan?"_

 _The manic expression that normally hovers just out of view surfaces in his steel blue eyes, Brendan's hands gesture wildly around his head as though controlled by an outside force._

 _"My thing? I am the brains, doc. You understand me? I make it all happen, all of it, I'm the king of the fucking world. What do you think would happen without me? It would all crumble to dust in a second."_

 _Silence descends. Brendan is panting audibly with exertion, as though he has run a marathon. Or as though he has just knocked someone out. In these moments, Mark is uncomfortably aware of Brendan's unpredictability. He scribbles in shorthand on his notes to be sure to prescribe an appropriate mood balancing medication. Then he decides to probe further._

 _"Brendan, with all due respect. You're not there now, and the place hasn't crumbled. The club has new owners. By all accounts, it's doing well."_

 _Mark almost feels guilty when he sees Brendan's shoulders sag in defeat. For half a second, only noticeable if it was being looked for, a lost look of panic flashes across his face, before Brendan comes back to himself and closes off his emotions._

 _"Course. Sold the place didn't I? I meant when me and Chez were there. I wanted - no, needed - it to be a success."_

 _"Needed? Interesting correction."_

 _Mark writes a single word on his pad, and Brendan pretends not to be craning to see it. Mark laughs, and Brendan's irritation rises again. He could wrestle that pen out of the doctor's hand, stab him in the eye with it, wiping that amused fucking look right off his face. Or he could touch Mark's face, reach out, alter the expression on it another way -_

 _Brendan tries the direct approach instead._

 _"What you writing in your little book there, doc? Answer to life, the universe and everything?"_

 _Mark underlines the word twice all the while focusing on Brendan. The attention makes Brendan feel an unwelcome thrill of desire shoot through him. Mark holds the notepad up and Brendan is temporarily robbed of breath. In the centre of the page is written the word that has been a stumbling block in nearly every session him and Mark have had so far._

 _"Control. The idea of not having that level of control over Chez Chez terrifies you. Why?"_

 _Brendan splutters, almost speechless. His eyes dart around the room, landing anywhere but at the page Mark is resolutely holding up._

 _"It was my business, I wanted it to be a success, what's so wrong with that?"_

 _"Nothing. But there's more to it than that, and you know it. Why are you so afraid of losing control Brendan?"_

 _"I'm not - I've already told you, people get hurt -"_

 _"Or maybe that's just an excuse."_

 _The words echo through time, Anne's scowl of disappointment in him when he was busy messing things up with Steven for the umpteenth time..._

 _He mustn't think of those things in here. Mark observes the conflict on Brendan's face. This time, the sigh escapes from his lips. He tears the offending word out of the book and hands it to Brendan._

 _"Take this. Think about the question some more. When you're ready to let go, bring that piece of paper to the session with you. I mean it Brendan. You're up for parole soon, and the progress you've made is minimal. It'll only get harder once you're released. I want you to think about what it is you want. The club? Isn't your responsibility anymore. Your sister? Married, someone else taking care of her. You need to be able to picture a life outside these walls without the control you've been used to in the past. Session's over Brendan."_

 _Back in his cell, Brendan traces his hand along the scores underneath the word. He carefully folds the paper twice, places it securely in his back pocket. Where it belongs._


	8. Chapter 8

8.

Sometimes during late September, the River Mersey can seem opaque; thick foamy waves with no sunlight above to reflect the deep blue of the water below. However, that year the North west was having something of an Indian summer. Joel had told Brendan that the storm that had raged on the day of his release from prison had been an odd diversion from a near perfect ten days of sunshine. Now that the clouds had parted the weather was determined to continue where it had let off. In fact, as Brendan looked up, eyes scrunched up and hand acting as a visor, he could not make out a single cloud in the sky.

He was regretting his outfit choice; a thin sheen of sweat glazed his forehead and he pushed the sleeves of his hooded top up to his elbows irritably. Brendan slung his leather jacket over a shoulder, wishing he had left the superfluous item in the car. He considered retracing his steps back to the car park to rid himself of it, but was plagued with the worry that he would not make it back in time to see Cheryl off the ferry. The shadow of the Liver Buildings afforded some respite from the heat, so Brendan gratefully retreated into it, transfixed on the water in front of him, watching as the boat pulled into the harbour, a gentle wave in its wake. Inexplicably, he realised he was nervous, which was ridiculous. It had only been little over a month since he saw her last, but that had been a different place, different time altogether.

As Cheryl threw herself into his arms however, Brendan realised that he had been desperate to be held by somebody he loved, and with that desperation had come fear of rejection. But here she was, holding on to him for dear life, and Brendan scolded himself internally for having such little faith in his sister. He held her with equal affection, firmly, breathing in her familiar perfume and feeling the material at his shoulder becoming suspiciously damp.

"Hey," he said softly, pulling away and tilting her chin up to face him. A spidery track of mascara ran down Cheryl's left cheek, and he tenderly brushed at it with his thumb.

"Oh god, I'm sorry Bren, what am I like eh?" Cheryl said, sniffing and reaching into her turquoise velvet shoulder bag in the hopes of retrieving a tissue. Brendan stood a little awkwardly as Cheryl regained her composure. He was uncomfortably aware of strangers eyes on them both, trying to decipher their relationship and figure out what he had done to make her cry. Brendan ended up staring down a helpless Chinese tourist, illogical anger simmering up under the scrutiny. He noticed Cheryl was staring at him, an indecipherable expression on her recently patched up face.

"Shall we walk a bit?" she asked, and Brendan nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Grabbing her travel case (decked out in leopard print, naturally) in one hand, Brendan followed his sister as they wandered back down towards the waterfront, case bumping noisily on the cobbles until they reached the smoothly lined pavement. The pier head was alive with a throng of tourists and locals making the most of the late summer's heat, and Brendan found himself running an assault course to avoid running into shrieking children and beleaguered parents. He stopped for a minute, leaning against the railings and digging in his jacket pocket to retrieve his aviators. Once they were over his eyes, he noticed Cheryl too had put on sunglasses - large, square and purple. She had her head tilted to the side as though she were studying him.

"What are you planning on doing with this?" Cheryl asked, fondly running her fingers through his slicked back hair. Brendan's hand followed hers self consciously.

"Haven't given it much thought to be honest."

"Might help. Feel like your old self again," Cheryl suggested, a hopeful lilt to her voice. He knew she was thinking about the last time he had returned from prison. On that occasion he had held on to the fear that had taken hold while he was incarcerated for too long. The satisfaction and sheer relief on Cheryl's face when Brendan had 'returned', slick suit and moustache intact, had made him feel guilty for letting her worry while he had basked in his misery. This time though...

Brendan looked down at his hands, which had taken on a grey tint through the lenses covering his eyes. A pattern of scars was drawn delicately across the ridges of his knuckles, the evidence of so many years of talking with his fists. Almost without thought he traced the line of his collarbone, searching for the cross that had nestled there since his confirmation. It's absence jarred, as it always did when he reached for it out of habit, a habit that still persisted after many years without it. Sometimes, late at night when most of the prison white noise had died down, he had tortured himself with the memory of Steven catching the pendant in his mouth as Brendan lay on top of him, Steven closing his plush lips around it and sucking obscenely. It made Brendan ache in a carnal way, but also in a less concrete sense - the indefinable ache of loss. At those times he had bitten down on his fist in an effort not to cry out in agony, silent howls of grief trapped behind his own skin and bone.

The truth was that all of the things that made Brendan 'his old self' now seemed as unobtainable as his crucifix. He had drifted so far from himself that he wasn't certain he had it in him to make it back to the shore.

Cheryl touched his bare arm, startling Brendan and bringing him back to the here and now; his wonderful, cherished baby sister gazing at him in the sunshine.

"Shall we sit over there?" she asked, pointing at a metal bench that had just been vacated, "such a gorgeous day, it'd be a shame to waste it."

Brendan shrugged and followed Cheryl's lead, depositing her case at arm's length next to him. Cheryl leant back and basked in the sunshine in a strappy dress and sandals, much more appropriately dressed for the weather than Brendan was. The heat prickled his skin unpleasantly and he sighed impatiently.

"Are we going to stay here long? I'm melting over here," he said, fanning his top away from his chest to make a point.

"Ah, don't be such a misery Bren. Besides, it'll do you good to get some sun into your bones."

"Is that right?"

Cheryl grinned at him and leant her head on his shoulder, Brendan shaking his head slightly, trying and failing to dislodge the smile that had taken up residence on his face.

"It's good to see you," he said, pressing a kiss into her hair softly. Seagulls glided through the sky around them, calling a shrill song of the sea to each other. Something akin to peace settled over Brendan.

"It's good to see you too," Cheryl returned, sitting up abruptly as her phone beeped loudly from her bag. She read the message that had come through and groaned a little.

"Apparently I need to tell you before I forget. Mitzeee wants to visit you. I said I'd see if you wanted her to have your number. If you ask me, you could do without her tarty outfits and big mouth, but -"

"Wait a second, Anne wants to visit?"

Cheryl pulled her sunglasses up for a moment to show Brendan the full effect of her eye roll.

"That's what I said, Bren."

"When the hell did you speak to Anne?"

Cheryl seemed evasive, and Brendan's confusion grew.

"Oh, you know. Why wouldn't I talk to her? Anyway -"

"Erm, maybe because you can't stand the woman?"

"Well, I wouldn't exactly put it like that..."

Brendan took off his sunglasses to direct the full intensity of his stare at his infuriating sister.

"Chez. Tell me."

Cheryl sighed an audible, put upon sigh.

"Okay, fine. Promise you won't get mad."

"I promise," Brendan chanted in a sing song voice, holding up his fingers in a mock scouts salute whilst muttering "Jesus" under his breath.

"When I came to see you last - you remember?"

"You mean when you came to impart the devastating news about Foxy's demise? How could I forget?"

"When Joel got in contact to tell me, he asked me if I'd be able to come to the funeral. And... well I said I would."

"Oh this is spectacular. So you weren't here to visit your poor banged up brother, you were here to attend the funeral of Warren Fox? Your ex boyfriend? The wife killer? Unbelievable."

Brendan stood abruptly from the bench, causing Cheryl to sway off balance. She held out her hands to him in an attempt to calm him down. Brendan paced in front of the bench like a caged animal suffering stress.

"Bren please don't be like this. It's why I didn't say anything. I wasn't there for Warren. I went for Joel. The wee lad sounded so alone and I thought he needed support. What would you have had me do?"

Brendan turned his face towards her, and Cheryl read the manic expression all too clearly.

"On second thoughts, don't answer that. Look Brendan, I went and that's that. You don't have to like it."

Brendan sensed he was on the losing end of the argument, and sat back down next to his sister. His well meaning, kinder than he deserved sister.

"I understand Chez. I do. I overreacted."

"Apology accepted."

"I wouldn't go that far. Anyway, what does any of this have to do with Anne?"

Cheryl took a deep breath, and Brendan guessed immediately what she was going to say.

"I wasn't the only one at the funeral."

"Uh-huh. Of course you weren't. What a reunion that must have been."

"Brendan, do you want me to tell you about this or not? Because it's no skin off my nose -"

"Yeah, yeah, i get the point. Please tell me. What happened at Foxy's funeral?"


	9. Chapter 9

9.

 _Cheryl practically throws her fare at the taxi driver, change cascading to the ground as she flings open the car door. She is already late, so abandons any thought of bending down to retrieve it. Instead, she totters towards the crematorium entrance, trying to slide through the door into the nearest available seat. The room isn't exactly full to bursting, and from her vantage point Cheryl can only see the backs of heads. She sees Joel sitting at the front, next to a nameless male who is presumably a relative, wearing an ill fitting suit. She is surprised when she notices a familiar mane of chestnut coloured hair, and wonders what possible motive Mitzeee could possibly have for being here. The service is impersonal, bleak. It suddenly strikes Cheryl as odd that Joel chose to invite anyone at all to witness Warren's final journey._

 _The curtain closes. The minister shakes Joel's hand and makes a hasty retreat. Cheryl scrambles up and makes a beeline for Joel, who looks lost and exhausted in equal measure. He smiles when he sees her, and she flings her arms around him, pulling him into a long hug._

 _"I'm so sorry Joel," she says warmly, gripping his shoulders to prevent him ducking away._

 _"Thanks Cheryl, but I'm not. Sorry, that is," Joel says, automatically glancing back at the space where the coffin had been._

 _"I didn't mean I'm sorry for Warren hun. I meant that I feel for you, dealing with this on your own."_

 _Joel realises the chapel has emptied, and he leads Cheryl out towards the car park._

 _"Well, thanks to you and Mitzeee I'm not entirely alone. I've got at least two friendly faces here," he says wryly, "so many of Warren's business associates turned up I half expected a police raid halfway through the service."_

 _Cheryl laughs politely and out of the corner of her eye spots Mitzeee, who is in conversation with a middle aged skinhead, touching his arm and giggling flirtatiously at whatever it is he's saying._

 _"Yeah. Erm, while we're on the subject, why exactly is Mitzeee here?"_

 _"Why wouldn't she be? We kept in touch after leaving the village. She's always been good to me."_

 _"I know that love. But there wasn't any love lost between her and Warren was there?"_

 _"Did you expect me to miss an opportunity to dance on Warren's grave? Plus, had to make sure the sly old fox hadn't faked his death for the second time, pun intended," Mitzeee drawls, appearing over Cheryl's shoulder having shaken off her admirer. The women assess each other, matching expressions of challenge on their faces._

 _"Cheryl. Always a pleasure."_

 _"Mitzeee. How's life in America?"_

 _Mitzeee shakes her hair and combs through a front curl with her manicured nails._

 _"The best. Sunshine twenty four seven and no drama. Only regret not doing it sooner."_

 _"Dresses like that one still in fashion over there then?"_

 _Mitzeee's eyes narrow and Joel steps between the two awkwardly._

 _"Shall we continue this down the pub? Raise a glass to Warren?"_

 _"Sounds good to me love," Cheryl says._

 _Mitzeee nods, "lead the way."_

 _As is usually the case, the mood mellows after consumption of a bottle of wine. The three sit in a corner booth in the Dog, shielding themselves from curious gazes as best they can._

 _"Where are you staying?" Cheryl asks, draining the dregs of her Pinot Grigio. Mitzeee gestures vaguely towards the door of the pub._

 _"Just with Maxine for the night. Back down to London tomorrow. It's weird - the idea of sleeping in the flat again."_

 _Joel and Cheryl nod, both acutely aware of the strangeness of being in the village when so much has changed._

 _Mitzeee starts to ask a question, then hesitates, wiping a lipstick smudge from her glass for something to do. She looks up, tries again._

 _"How's Brendan doing?"_

 _The question emerges more quietly than intended, and a knot inexplicably forms in her stomach._

 _"He's... well, you know our Bren. He'd hardly tell me if he wasn't okay would he? He should get a definite release date this week though, could even be within the next month."_

 _Cheryl's words and her expression don't match, and suspicion dawns in Mitzeee's mind._

 _"That's good news isn't it?"_

 _Joel hastily excuses himself from the conversation by heading to the bar, and Cheryl sighs, the tone of her voice sounds unnaturally cheerful to Mitzeee's ears._

 _"Yeah, course, I can't wait. We can't wait."_

 _Cheryl looks devastated rather than excited. Mitzeee reaches for Cheryl's hand, and she starts at the unexpected contact._

 _"He told me, Cheryl. You know, about what happened with him and his dad. I know how much it affected him. I'm not saying I agree with what he did. But I do understand it."_

 _Tears well in Cheryl's eyes and she wipes them with a finger before they spill over. She looks at the sympathetic understanding on Mitzeee's face and she can't stand it. The guilt is almost too much bear; the urge to confide her secret is overwhelming. Instead, she focuses on the new information Mitzeee's imparted._

 _"He told you about Da? When?"_

 _"A little after Seamus arrived in the village. Brendan was rattled. He was acting - well, like Brendan, only not the Brendan who had everything to live for. He was acting like the Brendan with a finger on the self destruct button. I remember we had a fight - I think it was about Riley - and he told me. He told me... god, awful things."_

 _"I can't believe he confided in you and not me. He never told me. I can't understand it. Even now."_

 _"Cheryl, we talked about that too, He didn't want to hurt you, he wanted to protect you. He was scared it would change everything. Imagine. Brendan being scared of you and Ste, it seems ridiculous now. But he was."_

 _Cheryl shudders. That word again. Protection. Why was Cheryl viewed as so weak that she needed protecting from everything that had happened to her brother? Mitzeee allows a silence before she probes further._

 _"Do you know? If he ever got the chance to tell Ste I mean?"_

 _"Yeah. He did. Ste knows. Poor lad."_

 _"He must be excited now though. With Brendan getting out soon I mean. Return of the 'tache," Mitzeee says, smiling in an attempt to lighten the mood. Her expression changed as she sees Cheryl's mouth turn downwards."_

 _"Brendan and Ste aren't still together, Mitzeee. They're over."_

 _"What?" Mitzeee shrieks, acquiring several disapproving glances from the surrounding tables._

 _Cheryl lowers her voice, "I thought you'd have known."_

 _"Well I might have done if Brendan had responded to any one of my letters," Mitzeee mumbles. Brendan's rejection still stung._

 _"He's done that with everyone Mitz. Cut the outside world off completely. I begged him and begged him to just get in touch with Ste, let him visit once, but - well, as I said. You know what he's like."_

 _"He's let you visit him though," Mitzeee tries to keep the hurt judgement out of her tone._

 _"Eventually. And very much on his terms. My applications get rejected more than they get approved. He's started calling me recently though, which is a good sign. Now he has hope of release, he's taken his finger off that self destruct button you mentioned."_

 _Mitzeee smirks, a wave of nostalgia for the old days hits her square in her chest._

 _"I want to see him."_

 _Cheryl seems surprised at Mitzeee's request, but she looks in earnest when their eyes meet._

 _"Please. Will you ask him? After he's out and settled I mean."_

 _Cheryl takes in her surroundings. Joel is nowhere to be seen. Maxine has arrived, giving them both a little wave before heading to the bar. She gathers her bag and jacket from the stool next to her and stands to leave._

 _"I'm going to get off now. It was good to catch up Mitzeee. Really."_

 _Mitzeee follows her to the door, grabs her arm, and Cheryl frowns._

 _"Take my number Cheryl. Then he can decide for himself. Please."_

* * *

Brendan had been quiet on the drive back to Chester. He turned the radio off while Cheryl talked, but now that she had finished he gave no sign of a reaction, or an acknowledgement that he'd even heard her. The silence became oppressive, and Cheryl fidgeted with her seatbelt, determined not to say anything; Brendan had to be the one to break the deadlock.

As he pulled the hire car into the car park attached to Joel's apartment, Brendan finally glanced at his sister. In the dusk light there was a shadow across her face and she was emitting an emotion Brendan couldn't quite decipher. He turned the key in the ignition, cutting the engine off. Staring ahead at the red bricked building in front of him, he steeled himself for the words that had swirled in his brain for most of the journey.

"Chez, do it. Give Anne my number."

Brendan climbed out of the car, lithe as a panther, shutting the door firmly behind him. Still in the passenger seat, Cheryl smiled.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Ste is in this chapter (sort of)! Longer than normal chapter - it was originally in segments, but I think it works better in one go.**

* * *

10.

The next day was the day that Brendan saw Steven for the first time since prison.

The day hadn't exactly begun with such promise. Joel's apartment, though modern and sleek, was also small. Overnight, Brendan and Cheryl had slept top and tail in the one bedroom, whilst Joel was relegated to the couch. Brendan quickly remembered why he hated sharing a bed with his sister; she was a starfish who fell asleep almost instantly across three quarters of the bed. Having had two sleepless nights in a row, Brendan knew he needed to try and rest, but it felt as though it was never going to happen. His brain was overloaded with information about the club, Anne, Warren... it was all jumbled in an uncomfortable mess along with Joel, his kids, Cheryl, Steven...

At some point during the night, exhaustion must have set in, because the next thing he knew Brendan was being shaken awake by Cheryl. She was perched on the edge of the bed next to him, offering up a cup of coffee. Brendan blinked the blur of sleep out of his eyes and used his elbows to prop himself up to take the mug from her.

"What time is it?"

"It's gone ten. You must have needed it love. Would've left you longer, but I'm making breakfast for you and Joel. Didn't think you'd want to miss out."

Brendan put his cup down on the bedside table.

"Joel back in then? He must've been late last night."

"Yeah, he looks almost as bad as you," Cheryl said with a grin, letting out a shriek when Brendan aimed a pillow at her.

"Get out of here then, let me get dressed in peace."

Brendan emerged into the living area to the comforting aroma of fried eggs and fresh coffee. Joel was propped at the breakfast bar, holding his face in his hands as though it would fall to bits if he took their support away.

"Morning Joel," Brendan said loudly, slapping him on the back as he went past. He sat on the stool at the end of the counter and grinned evilly at Joel's pained expression.

"Good night last night was it?"

Cheryl rolled her eyes and placed a plate with a pile of toast in the centre of the bar.

"Leave him alone Bren. Do him some toast. What you need, Joel, is some food and cup of coffee as big as your head."

Brendan buttered two pieces of toast haphazardly and passed them to Joel, taking some for himself and smothering the bread in jam. Seedless.

"Personally I'd recommend hair of the dog Joel. Get a beer down you, soon sort you out."

Joel gave Brendan a pathetic, doleful glance and groaned loudly in reply, picking up a piece of the toast gingerly before bringing it to his mouth as if it might contain poison.

"So where did you go?" Brendan asked, mouth full of toast, a fleck of jam caught at the corner of his mouth by his beard. Joel, having taken a tentative bite, began to look queasy and placed the slice of toast down on his plate.

"The Dog. Was only going to have a couple, but got chatting to a few people and..."

"One thing led to another?" smiled Cheryl, depositing a full Irish in front of both men, taking a seat of her own.

"Cheryl, you're an angel sent from heaven," Brendan said, picking up his cutlery with unbridled enthusiasm. Joel did the same with rather less relish, but soon started to look better as more of the food disappeared.

"I saw Ste last night," Joel said with the air of someone who was imparting important information, "he was in the Dog with Amy and the kids, having dinner."

Brendan's knife and fork hovered in mid-air, and Cheryl was looking at Joel aghast. Joel, oblivious to the discomfort he had caused, continued, warming to his theme.

"Saw Tony too, before I'd had too much thankfully. Said we'd go and see him today to swap the rental agreement for this place into your name."

"You're planning on staying here?" Cheryl asked, hurt evident in her voice. Brendan felt as though he had been cornered.

"I haven't exactly _planned_ anything sis -"

"It makes sense Cheryl, he'll need to be nearby for the club anyway."

Cheryl looked between Brendan and Joel disbelievingly, breakfast abandoned. Brendan felt that the lights over the breakfast bar were too bright, and he felt sweat prickling under his arms. He closed his eyes and tried to still the erratic thumping of his heart. He hadn't mentioned the Loft to Cheryl the previous day because he was frightened she would disapprove. Sure enough, when his eyes reopened, he was met with a scowling Cheryl and a confused Joel, who gestured between them nervously.

"Did you not tell Cheryl about Warren?" asked Joel, and Brendan groaned, burying his head in his crossed arms that were atop the breakfast bar.

"Okay, somebody needs to tell me what is going on right now, because I feel like I've stepped into an alternate dimension here. The club? Warren?"

Brendan silently prayed for Joel to be quiet, giving him a glare for good measure just in case God didn't get the message.

"Listen Chez, don't get worked up. Joel was left the Loft in Warren's will. When it was bought and why - well, you know as much as we do about that. Joel has very kindly offered to sign the place over to me, save me having to search the market for somewhere new. Back on my feet quicker this way. Isn't that right Joel?"

Joel, seemingly now unable or unwilling to speak, nodded furiously before leaving the table, stool screeching across the kitchen's limestone tiles like nails across a blackboard.

Once he'd left the room, Cheryl gathered up the plates and began clearing them noisily with her back to Brendan. He stood and opened the dishwasher to try and help, but Cheryl put her hand out to stop him.

"Don't. How can you think for one minute that his is a good idea Bren? You said you were only coming here for a few days -"

"Chez- "

"- And you said that you wanted to start again. How is this starting again? After all that happened -"

"Chez- "

"- I thought you wouldn't be able to wait to leave. And the club? Where dad was..."

Brendan grabbed Cheryl to put a stop to her frenzied clean up of the kitchen. They did not have much in common; he was the yin to her yang, the dark to her light. The fidgeting when upset however: this was something that Cheryl and Brendan shared.

"Chez, please stop. I know it might seem crazy, but I've thought about it. It seems like the right thing to do - a second chance to get it right, you know?"

Brendan wasn't sure if this line would work on Cheryl. After all, he wasn't sure if he believed it himself. The real explanation for Brendan wanting to stay in Hollyoaks was much murkier and complex. The place was familiar to him, and with Dublin out of reach that was a major selling point. He liked the thought of staying in this apartment, close to where so may memories resided. The idea of regaining the club, particularly at Warren's expense, was also deeply satisfying. The murders of Seamus Brady and Danny Houston before him felt as though they belonged in another life, to another club. Chez Chez and the things that had happened there, had been life changing for Brendan.

Cheryl appeared to be appeased, but anxiety still showed in the corners of her eyes. She held a hand to Brendan's jawline, searching his face for the truth.

"I understand the urge to try again. I do. Please just promise me that this is about you, and not about Ste."

The name pierced his gut, as it always did, leaving him feeling drained and sick.

"I already told you Chez, I've got no intention of meddling in his life."

"You know what they say about the road to hell being paved with good intentions Bren."

"It isn't about Steven. It isn't!" he said, a little too loudly to sound sincere. Cheryl released him and closed the dishwasher door with a satisfying click. She was calmer now, Brendan was relieved to note, but something was clearly still on her mind. As she swilled out her coffee mug in the sink, Cheryl asked the question that Brendan had been afraid of posing.

"Even assuming your intentions are good, what about Joel's? Do you believe that he didn't know Warren would leave him the club?"

Leaning against the counter behind him, Brendan scraped a hand through his hair to keep a wayward strand from falling into his face. Time for a haircut, he thought distractedly.

"I don't know sis. I'm pretty sure Joel is genuine, but Foxy?" Brendan shook his head thoughtfully, "maybe he wanted Joel to be victorious. I mean, he gave him half of Chez Chez all those years ago with the sole purpose of pissing me off. This might just be what it appears to be. Foxy underestimating his son until the end."

Cheryl wiped her hands on a dishcloth and headed for the bathroom.

"I hope you're right Bren, for both of our sakes," she said over her shoulder. Brendan felt the pinch of a headache forming. Another long day loomed ahead.

* * *

There was a storm brewing. There were clouds on the horizon; the air was close and oppressive. This was not good for Brendan's mood. Not somebody who was at home in summer clothes, Brendan spent what seemed like hours staring at his holdall, hoping something comfortable and 'Brendan appropriate' would leap out at him. Eventually, after being yelled at by both Joel and Cheryl for taking too long, he put on the only remotely suitable items he owned; a short sleeved black t shirt and bootcut jeans. Brendan frowned at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. As with most of the clothes that he had left, the t shirt was a little too tight across his shoulders and arms, the sleeves riding up at his armpit, revealing more of his cross tattoo than normal. The jeans were tight around his thighs, although the waist was loose and required an extra notch on his belt.

Before his release he had been adamant about not cutting his hair, new style to go with the new start. Out in the real world though, it was beginning to annoy him; it wasn't quite long enough to tie back out of the way, so strands continually fell over his face. Brendan brushed through it now irritably, trying to keep it slicked in place. Grabbing his wash bag from the counter above the sink, Brendan pulled out hair product, and as an afterthought, a container of medication. He fixed his hair as best he could, staring at himself in the poorly lit bathroom. There were heavy dark circles around his eyes, and his face had a translucent quality from a lack of sun and daylight exposure. Thankfully, the beard acted as protection for some of the delicate, fragile skin, lessening the gaunt effect it might otherwise have had. Nevertheless, Brendan was unsettled by his appearance. The man in the mirror looked almost like a grotesque caricature of the person he used to be, and he wasn't sure he was ready for people from the village to see him. Brendan vowed that a haircut, a shopping spree and a good sleep were required as soon as possible. He turned on the cold tap and drank straight from it, throwing two tablets into his mouth to swallow.

"You can do this," he whispered to his reflection. The reflection stared back at him, unmoving. Brendan felt the familiar warmth of shame at his own weakness creep through him. The reflection smiled at him, a twisted rictus, manic and inhuman. Brendan slammed the door of the bathroom behind him, the empty mirror rattling against the tiles.

* * *

The village was the same as ever. In fact, Brendan felt more at ease on this second visit, due to the wary glances he, Cheryl and Joel were receiving. He was on familiar ground here, he was used to people being intimidated by him, and had the added advantage of meaning they were mostly left alone as they proceeded to the coffee shop, where Joel had arranged to meet with Tony. It being late September, the place was full of excitable students who had just arrived in the area, all yelling at each other over their iPhones and soya lattes. Brendan let out a growl which startled the nearest noise offenders into lowering their voices a touch. He hated students. One of the only positives of prison, he thought to himself.

Tony didn't exactly buck the cautious trend Brendan had witnessed so far today. He was certainly pleased to see Cheryl, and asked her about Nate and their life of privilege back in Ireland. Cheryl answered politely enough, but lacked her usual spark. Brendan eyed her curiously, but said nothing, opting instead to buy the coffees. Waiting at the counter, he wondered if their offerings had improved in the many years since his last drink from this place. Brendan had preferred his coffee from the deli once that had opened, and not just for entirely nefarious reasons. Ste had known Brendan's preferences off by heart. Their brief time living together had resulted in Brendan becoming spoilt; he never made his own coffee and realised he never wanted to. The instant stuff they passed off for coffee in prison was just not the same.

When he returned to the table, Tony was in the process of leaving, having arranged to meet with Joel once he had got the new rental agreement through from his solicitor. Brendan felt a flood of relief; Tony could have made things difficult for him, but clearly the importance of having a paying tenant overrode any personal scruples the businessman might have had.

"You okay Chez?" Brendan asked once Tony had left. She was behaving a most un - Cheryl like way, looking out of the window and stirring her coffee unnecessarily, the foam on her cappuccino rapidly dissolving.

"Hmmm? Yeah, course I'm okay, why wouldn't I be?"

Joel raised an eyebrow at Brendan disbelievingly, clearly in agreement with him that something wasn't right.

"Do you guys fancy coming over to the Loft with me? I said I'd meet the manager to go through what happens next. Thought you might like to see the place?"

Brendan caught Cheryl's recoil of horror, and for the moment at least, realised he shared the sentiment.

"Not just yet Joel. Need a few more days, get some things straight. We'll have a look once it's been transferred over. You can help me with the redecoration Chez," Brendan said in a light tone that belied his tumultuous thoughts. Joel nodded a little sadly.

"No worries. The manager's a nice bloke actually, spoke with him on the phone. I guess I should let him know he'll be out of a job soon though eh?"

Brendan nodded and knocked back the rest of his coffee, fishing about in his jeans pocket for his chewing gum, a task made more difficult by the ill fit. Shopping, Brendan thought once more.

"When are you planning on heading back to Scotland Joel? Not too desperate to get away from us I hope?" Cheryl asked, smiling in a way that did not quite reach her eyes. Brendan wondered if it was because she was still having misgivings about the club.

"To be honest Cheryl, I need to make a move. Next weekend at the most. Got nothing to hang around for now. You're here to look after Brendan now aren't you? I'm off the hook?"

Cheryl laughed and in that moment Brendan loved Joel for cheering his sister up, even if it was at his own expense.

"Hey, I'm still sitting here you know. Don't think either of you will be up for any babysitting awards any time soon," he said with feigned incredulity.

"Brendan, I have single handedly sorted you out with a flat and a business. Not exactly shabby for four days work."

"My, how the tables have turned," Brendan said, thinking back to meeting with Joel for the first time. Coincidentally he had been wearing the same t shirt that evening, having just returned from his previous stay at her majesty's pleasure. He remembered Joel being attractive, but also inexplicably angry with everyone and everything. Brendan supposed that's what happened when one discovered shared DNA with Warren Fox. Joel had been drawn to Brendan despite himself, and Brendan had been only too happy to incur Warren's wrath further by befriending the boy.

It had only been later, with Warren out of the picture, that Brendan had developed genuine affection for Joel. He had wanted to protect him, but as with everyone Brendan tried to protect, it had all unravelled hideously, the thread unspooling into a mess of brains, blood and gore. After everything that had passed between them, Brendan felt unworthy of the forgiveness that had been bestowed upon him by both Joel and Cheryl. He wondered if he could have been so selfless if the tables were turned. No matter their motives, the two people in front of him had made sure Brendan wasn't entirely alone in the world, and that meant everything.

* * *

In the time they had been inside the coffee shop, the clouds had moved in menacingly. Joel said goodbye and jogged over towards the Loft. Brendan watched as he disappeared down the alley, feeling the memories invading his mind, insidious yet unstoppable. Knocking Cheryl to the ground in his attempt to set up a mugging, stealing the takings of the club when they had only just started out. Stuffing a pair of khaki socks into an envelope and handing it to Doug to deliver as though it was a package of drugs, with the sole intention of passing on the cash to set Steven up with his business. Steven finding him and kissing him and wanting him to go home with him, as though he was somebody who deserved such happiness. As though he was redeemable.

"Bren?" Cheryl said hesitantly, placing a hand on his arm. Brendan jumped as her hand burnt his skin painfully. Brendan thought he could smell scorched flesh, but when she removed her hand, there was nothing there, just unblemished skin. He squeezed his eyes shut and practised breathing in and out slowly to try and prevent hyperventilation.

"Come away Bren," Cheryl murmured softly, as though she were coaxing a small child. Brendan fought for control, feeling his chest gradually loosen and his breathing ease. Cheryl gently guided him to the fountain, and they sat together on the stone bench in silence, whilst Brendan came back to himself fully.

"There needs to be a storm. This weather is awful," Cheryl said, glazing over Brendan's troubling silence. He seemed to have retreated into himself, eyes frighteningly vacant.

"Brendan.. are you sure that coming back here is a good idea? Because I've got to be honest with you babe, it doesn't seem like its having the best effect on you right now."

Brendan clenched and unclenched his fists several times before facing Cheryl. The vacant expression had been replaced with a look of exhaustion.

"It's not about the village Chez. The doc prescribed me some pills, and since I've been out I keep forgetting to take them. It's no big deal."

Rather than being appeased, Cheryl seemed more concerned than ever.

"Medication? For what?"

"Dunno. Balances my mood, or some shit. Can't say I've noticed much difference."

"No wonder if you haven't been taking it properly. The minute we get back to the flat you're passing the stuff over to me Bren, no arguments. I'll make sure you don't forget."

"Yes mam," Brendan said with a sarcastic salute at his sister.

"I mean it. I'm worried about you, you need to look after yourself. I think I should come with you to your next therapy session, when is it?"

"Seriously? Do you remember what happened the last time we were in a shrink's office together?"

Brendan could still see the red haze that had descended when that doctor had pressed him for details about Seamus. Blind rage that was frightening in its unpredictability. Brendan knew that even Cheryl, who had witnessed much worse, was shocked by how his anger had come out of nowhere with such violence.

"That was a long time ago Bren, and we don't have any secrets from each other anymore... right?"

"Right," Brendan sighed, pinching the top of his nose in his characteristic reaction to being put in an untenable position.

And that's when he saw him. Only out of the corner of his eye at first, so Brendan naturally imagined he was seeing things. But he looked again, and sure enough, at the bottom of the Oakdale Drive steps, there stood Steven.

For a moment, Brendan felt nothing. No stirring of emotion, no punch to the gut to leave him breathless. A shiver of hope passed through him. Perhaps the obsession was over, perhaps he would finally be freed from the purgatory he had willingly shackled himself into.

Steven wasn't alone. He was with a teenage girl, and Brendan realised with a jolt that this was Leah. They both had smiles on their faces, as though one of them had just cracked a joke. Leah had grown up to look very like her mother; she had an attractive, open face and waist length blonde hair. Although her looks were her mother's, Brendan could see that her facial expressions and mannerisms were all Ste. She was relaying a story animatedly to her father, arms gesturing expressively as she acted something out.

Brendan found himself concentrating on Leah to avoid examining Ste more closely. But of course, Brendan was like a man who had been stranded in the desert sighting water for the first time in weeks. He couldn't help but drink in every single detail, realising that the numbness he had been feeling was shock; now that was receding, and a torrent of repressed emotion came tumbling out with such intensity that he was temporarily rendered deaf and dumb.

He's beautiful, Brendan thought. Odd how he had not stored an accurate image in his head, despite Ste being a constant presence in his dreams. There were differences that were obvious too. Like Brendan, Ste looked older. His body, which had once been on the skinny side of slim, was now more filled out. There was a solidity to him that had not been there before; Ste had always looked easily breakable but the years had made this effect less pronounced. His skin was still flawless, tan and healthy with sunkissed glow. A light shine on his forehead was the only indication that Ste was in any way suffering in the humidity. To be fair, Brendan noticed that he was much more appropriately dressed for the weather than he was, wearing a sky blue polo shirt and taupe shorts. Ste had always been made for sunshine. To Brendan, he sometimes seemed to be made _of_ sunshine. His smiling mouth showcased white teeth and plump lips, and his eyes showed signs that for Ste smiling and laughing was a common occurrence, a network of creases beginning to gather at the corners. Although the style of his hair hadn't changed - it was still short on the back and sides and arranged in a neat quiff at the top - the colour was different, the tips now a much lighter blonde than they had been.

Without really thinking what he was doing, Brendan got up from the bench. Instinctively, he was drawn to Steven, as if the barrier of years had melted away and it was the time before, when seeing him and sparring with him had been the highlight of each day. He had stood in that same spot where Ste and Leah were standing, tormenting Ste, and himself for that matter with their tension filled exchanges.

 _"Are you trying to tell me that these moments don't make you happy, Steven? That you don't get a buzz when I'm close, like this?"_

Closing the distance between them felt natural. This hadn't been part of the plan, but as it always had, Brendan's resolve crumbled when faced with Ste.

"Steven..." Brendan said, half to himself, half in the hope that that would be all it took to make Ste turn and notice him. Suddenly he felt his wrist being gripped, and he looked down at his hand uncomprehendingly.

"Shit, Bren, what are you doing?" Cheryl hissed, dragging her brother away, hiding them both behind a tree. Brendan was shellshocked and allowed himself to be manhandled, but once they were hidden from view he frowned at Cheryl's panic.

"What the hell Chez?"

"It's Ste!" she shrieked trying to keep her voice down but it rising through the octaves regardless. She was peering around the tree trunk like a twisted Miss Marple. Brendan laughed reactively at the absurdity of it.

"Yeah Chez, I can see that. Haven't lost the use of my eyes."

Cheryl looked back at Brendan with an intensity that was alarming, and she motioned for him to crouch down next to her, which he begrudgingly did.

"He doesn't know you're out Bren. You just going to stroll up to him with no warning after ten years? There's no knowing how he'd react -"

"I just want to talk to him..." Brendan said, his voice more unsteady than he intended. I just want to touch him, his mind unhelpfully supplied. Which version of this sentence he had actually uttered to Cheryl wasn't certain, somehow the lines between thoughts and speech had blurred. She was looking at him with such pity that all of the terror had dissipated, and he felt nauseous.

"But do you really want to do it like this? Babe, I know this must be hard, but think about Ste. It wouldn't be fair."

Brendan's eyes became tight and uncomfortable, prickling in a way that left him rubbing them aggressively to try and stave off the rising sadness.

"Do you know what's not fair Chez? The thought that, even if I marched over there and called his name and told him that he was everything to me, the only thing that got me through prison alive... even if I did and said all of that, it would never be enough to undo the damage I've done to him. You know he sent letters for years? Years of sending them back to him, unopened. It got harder and harder to do each time. But then it stopped, he stopped. And I missed the letters, I missed that pressure in my chest that I got when I had to turn them away. Because it was something, you know? That pain... it was better than the nothing that replaced it."

"I had no idea... he sent letters for years?" Cheryl asked, wiping a tear away from her eye, in a way that suggested she was trying to hide them from Brendan.

He looked back towards Ste and Leah. A car had stopped in front of them, and Leah was pressing into her father for a kiss before getting into the passenger seat. Brendan squinted his eyes to make out the driver - a man more of Brendan's age than Leah's. He suspected it was a glimpse of Amy's partner. Ste waved goofily as the car drove off; once it was out of sight he skipped back up the steps and Brendan lost him. He leant against the tree trunk wearily, listening to the first rumble of thunder disrupt the sky.

" Years, Chez. The sick thing is that part of me was glad that he hadn't listened to me, that I was on his mind as much as he was on mine..."

"Oh Bren," Cheryl folded him carefully into her arms as though he was made of glass, "do you think you'll ever be able to move on?"

Brendan did not have a chance to answer. Lightning forked and crackled through the purple sky, and fat raindrops began to spatter on to the ground. Brendan and Cheryl made a run for it, heading back to the safety of the apartment.

The storm had begun.


	11. Chapter 11

11.

 _"Let's talk a little about your romantic relationships."_

 _"Let's not," Brendan says, thrown by Mark's opening gambit, instantly on the defensive. For once, Mark does not have Brendan's file in front of him. In fact, it's nowhere to be seen. On this occasion, Mark must have prepared his line of questioning. For some reason, this makes Brendan uneasy._

 _"You came out as gay not that long before your arrest, is that right?"_

 _"How is that relevant?"_

 _Brendan is aggrieved. Sexuality in prison is neither seen or heard. Sex is used for transactional purposes only. Any real orientations from the time before are best off remaining hidden._

 _"I was wondering how your family reacted to the news."_

 _"They baked me a rainbow cake and formed a Village People tribute act in my honour."_

 _Mark is wearing his glasses today, and gives Brendan a disapproving look over them. Brendan feels a surge of satisfaction for earning it. But Mark is still staring at him, and this attention makes his throat dry, and he picks up his water glass to lubricate his vocal chords._

 _"Look doc, I don't know what to tell you. They were mostly fine about it. Took it better than I did, as it happens. Chez knew for ages."_

 _"Oh really? How did she find out?"_

 _"I was screwing one of our bar staff. Curiosity satisfied?" Brendan's flippant tone protects him from any memories that threaten to bob to the surface to accompany his statement._

 _"Your last address is listed as at a block of flats I believe you owned? Says in your record that you lived there with a Steven Hay -"_

 _"Don't say his name," Brendan growls, low and menacing. Curiously, Mark has a satisfied expression on his face, and Brendan tries to step outside the situation to look at it objectively. What has he given away with his angry response?_

 _"Was he your partner Brendan?"_

 _"You're really determined to scratch that itch ain't you doc? Tell me, do you have a boyfriend?"_

 _Mark splutters, taking off his glasses and fiddling with the metal arms nervously._

 _"How did you - how do you know I'm gay?"_

 _Brendan leans forward, licking his lips in a predatory pose._

 _"You told me."_

 _"No. No I definitely never said -"_

 _"Who said anything about a verbal confession?"_

 _"Brendan, if you're somehow under the mistaken impression -"_

 _"That you fantasise about me tearing off your clothes and fucking you on top of this coffee table?"_

 _They exchange an odd look. For a minute or so both Mark and Brendan are clearly imagining the scenario that has been presented. Brendan feels the back of his neck heat up in an unwelcome way; he holds the base of it with his right hand in an attempt to cool it down. When he looks back at Mark the cold veneer of professionalism is back, and Brendan is peculiarly disappointed._

 _"That comment says a lot more about you than it does me, Brendan," Mark responds dispassionately, but Brendan is certain that the doctor was unnerved, even if it was just for a moment. Time to feed Mark some carefully curated snippets of information._

 _"I promise I'll behave doc. What do you want to know?"_

 _"How long were you together?"_

 _"We danced around each other for the best part of three years. Properly together though? A few months."_

 _"And what prevented you from beginning a relationship sooner?"_

 _A question with too many answers to count. Brendan selected the simplest, yet simultaneously most complex response he could give._

 _"What prevented it? Why, that would be me, doc."_

 _"Could you elaborate?"_

 _"He was ready. I wasn't. All there is to it."_

 _"So, you're saying that you weren't prepared to come out of the closet for the relationship?"_

 _Another headache is developing behind his eyes, a recurring theme on his visits to this office. Brendan presses his fingers to his temples._

 _"It wasn't quite that simple."_

 _"I'm sure it wasn't. What caused you to change your mind in those last few months?"_

 _"Doc, you've got to understand, I'd never not wanted to be with... him. It was just a question of circumstance. For a long time he was with someone else, so."_

 _"How did you feel about that?"_

 _"How do you think I fucking felt about it?" Brendan shouts, spittle flecks spraying from his mouth like venom. He wants to run, flee from this situation that he's trapped in, but fights the urge._

 _"I wanted him to be happy...just not with Douglas."_

 _"And did you voice that opinion at the time?"_

 _Brendan smiles at Mark cynically, anger bubbling steadily under the surface._

 _"What do_ **you** _think doc?"_

 _"I think that you meddling in his life, trying to control his choices, can't have been very popular with Steven, am I correct?"_

 _Brendan hadn't meant to throw the glass, it wasn't part of the plan, but there it now lay, shattered to pieces against the wall, narrowly missing Mark's head. He also hadn't intended to grab Mark by the shirt collar, dragging him up until they were nose to nose. And he definitely hadn't intended to hiss "never say his name in here again, do you understand?" in Mark's face, lips so close to his that they were practically touching. No, there had been no intent, yet here they are, standing in the centre of the room, coffee table shoved aside in Brendan's rage, water dripping down the wall and landing on the shards of glass littering the carpet. He can't understand how he got there, is struggling to reconstruct the sequence of events in his head that would explain his grip on Mark's shirt and his frenzied staring into Mark's eyes. The storm had passed as quickly as it had arrived. Brendan considers kissing the lips in front of him. Instead, he releases the hold and pats down Mark's shirt in a placating gesture, muttering "it's okay" repeatedly as he sinks back into his chair, breaking eye contact. Mark stands for a moment unmoving and seemingly speechless._

 _"Christ, I need a whiskey," Mark says and Brendan lets out a loud, hysterical laugh in response._

 _"Me too, doc. Me too."_

* * *

 _That night, Brendan dreams of Steven. He is in his own bed, which he is surprised about and grateful for. By all accounts, after his outburst, he should have been dragged into solitary confinement for at least a week. Yet nothing had even been mentioned. The only possible explanation for that was that Mark had not reported it. This gave Brendan food for thought. Mark had kept quiet, even though Brendan had crossed the line in a major way. This decision could mean that he now had extra leverage over the good doctor. Something he could use to his advantage later on._

 _A little after midnight, Brendan drifts into sleep with Steven's name on his lips._

 _"Brendan...open your eyes..."_

 _The voice at his ear is achingly familiar. The breath whispers along the shell, the lightest touch of the softest mouth against the lobe. Brendan's eyes slowly open to the sight of Steven leaning over him, naked and smiling teasingly. One of the cruelties of spending years behind bars is the lack of variation in the settings of his dreams. The years of imagining the terrifying beauty of the outside world had long since ceased. Brendan is always in his cell, even when asleep; the only indication of not being awake is who is keeping him company. So, Steven is here, wedged in between Brendan and the cold sterile cell wall; he is stroking his fingers lightly across Brendan's chest and abs, lightly disturbing the hair scattered there. Brendan cannot break eye contact, cannot even blink, for fear that Steven might disappear and leave him alone again._

 _"Steven..." Brendan almost breathes the name in as he whispers it, agony of longing evident in his tone. He places a hand over Steven's moving one and stills it, closing their fingers together over Brendan's rapidly pulsing heart._

 _He wasn't always visited by the same Ste. Different versions showed up at different times. Sometimes it was the youngest one; gobby but uncertain. Sometimes it was the one he had fired from Chez Chez; more self assured, but angry, mainly with him. Tonight it's his favourite Ste, the one who came to find him in Dublin, the one who created a home for him. His hair is softly styled, and Brendan brushes through it with his free hand, gripping the base of Ste's neck when he settles there, savouring the delicate warmth of the velvet skin underneath his fingers._

 _"I'm here Brendan," Ste whispers reassuringly, moving their linked hands up to his mouth to kiss it tenderly. He brushes his lips against each knuckle on Brendan's hand, and Brendan exhales a staggered breath, aware he is in a dream but feeling the stirrings of lust pooling in his groin nevertheless._

 _"I've missed you Steven," he says, gently pulling down on Ste's neck to press their lips together. Ste's lips are as supple and as accommodating as Brendan remembers, the rough massage of tongues and occasional graze of teeth acting as a welcome contrast to the softness of Ste's touch._

 _Brendan quickly realises that Ste has shifted mid embrace, and is now seated in Brendan's lap, thighs straddling him firmly on either side of his body. The kiss breaks off, and Ste sits up straight, grinding his hips against Brendan with a wicked grin on his face, licking his lips slowly and suggestively. Brendan moans, grabbing at Ste's waist and gripping the unblemished skin there hard enough to bruise, desperate to leave a mark._

 _"You thought about fucking someone else today," Ste says, throwing his head back with a low moan, thrusting his hips into Brendan's hands rhythmically, unashamed lust evident in the tilt of his chin and his closed eyes, feather like eyelashes fanned onto flushed cheeks. Brendan's head fills with the fog of confusion. Had he thought about someone else? At this moment such a thing seems impossible._

 _"The doctor?" Ste clarifies, ceasing his movement and staring at Brendan intently, pupils dark and feverish, "I don't want to share you Brendan."_

 _"Seriously? You don't have to worry about that Steven. There's never been anyone else."_

 _Memories compress and expand like the cacophony of images in a kaleidoscope. Ste bites his lip and strokes himself deliberately, provocatively, teasing Brendan with the possibilities his body offers._

 _"And I'm here to make sure there never is," Ste whispers, and a shivers runs through Brendan's spine at the same time as Ste lowers himself down onto Brendan impossibly and agonisingly slowly. Being connected like this, as deep inside Ste as he can possibly be, is a feeling that is imprinted in his memory. The intimacy, the closeness, the eroticism; things he had never felt with anyone else. As Ste moves on top of him, letting out uninhibited animalistic pants as he does so, Brendan feels as though he is suffocating, because he knows he cannot stay here. Knows he must wake up. He drags Ste's body down to his and clashes their mouths together, sucking and tasting so desperately that he wonders how his treacherous brain can be responsible for creating such a vivid and glorious illusion._

 _"I love you," Brendan says into Ste's mouth, repeats it until the words are no longer coherent, just a constant murmuring of heartfelt noise, and as he does this he feels his pleasure rising. He is aware that his orgasm is approaching, and he feels prematurely bereft, because he knows that once this is over he will be back to being alone in his cell. The thought is unbearable._

 _"Brendan, look at me. Stay with me," Ste gasps, panting the words out breathlessly. Tears escape out of the corners of Brendan's eyes in a tumult of anger, love and frustration, dripping down his cheeks towards his hairline. He shudders and convulses and shouts Steven's name in a crescendo of released ecstasy, tension falling from his taut muscles. He sees adoration on Ste's face and it is almost too much to bear. Brendan reaches between their bodies, trying to touch Ste in return, but his hand is stopped before it reaches its destination. Ste shakes his head, pulling Brendan over until both men lie on their sides, facing each other as they catch their breath. Ste strokes Brendan's hair and beard, kisses the sides of his eyes and licks the tear trails on his face tenderly like a mother cat tending to a kitten with his hot tongue. Then he bestows Brendan with a long, sensuous open mouthed kiss that is so intense it hurts Brendan's heart._

 _"Sleep now. I'm here."_

 _Brendan wants to protest, tell Ste he is already asleep, but he feels his eyelids grow heavy and his limbs slacken against his will._

 _When Brendan wakes, there is dried semen on his bare stomach, and the taste of salt lingers on his mouth._


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Warning - some fairly graphic violence in this chapter.**

12.

"It's not fair on him. You have to tell him Chez," Joel was saying, in a volume that he probably considered discreet. Brendan almost rolled his eyes from his hiding place in the hallway. When they had returned to the flat Cheryl had suggested, rather forcibly, that Brendan have an early night. Clearly she was hoping that this strategy would aid the medication she was now in charge of in working its magic on Brendan. He had bristled at the very idea of an 'early night' - he was a club owner, a night owl by nature - going to bed for the purpose of sleep was not in his make up. Nonetheless, after fronting a half hearted argument, Brendan had retreated to the bedroom, changed into a pair of jersey pyjama bottoms and lay on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling rather stubbornly. Cheryl was only looking out for him of course, but the lack of autonomy he now had really grated on Brendan, particularly after having spent so long in isolation. He had been prescribed sleeping tablets to help him adjust; apparently it was common for men who had been incarcerated for a long time to need a little support on reintroduction to the real world. But Brendan railed against taking the things, they left him sluggish and slow witted the following day; not a state he liked to be in. So he lay with his arms cradling his head, trying to empty his brain of thoughts that were keeping him awake.

It soon became clear that it wasn't going to work. Brendan had let out an exasperated sigh and pulled himself up, heading to the bathroom to take one of those hated tablets. In the hallway, he could hear Cheryl and Joel in what sounded like a serious discussion, and despite himself paused to eavesdrop. Apparently the pair were deciding yet again what was best for him while he was absent. Brendan silently added being talked about behind his back to the long list of things he disliked.

"I know, of course I know. But it's not that simple Joel. When I last saw him, I never even mentioned it. I meant to, but I couldn't face it. And that was, what, only a few weeks ago? He's never going to believe that I didn't know now."

From his hiding spot Brendan frowned. Not talking about him then. He felt a little foolish, as well as a touch self obsessed.

"Just explain to him that you weren't sure and that you didn't want to say anything until it was a definite. Ste's a reasonable guy right? Surely he'll understand that."

Brendan's ears pricked up at the mention of Ste's name.

"Maybe, but to be honest with you love, I'm a little scared of his reaction. Especially now, with our Bren deciding to stay here. I guess I was selfishly hoping that I wouldn't be the one to have to break it to him."

"You said it yourself though Cheryl, it'll be worse if he finds out some other way. I mean, Tony won't say anything now we've asked him not to, but it won't be long before someone else recognises him and spills the beans. "

That explained Cheryl's unease when they had been in the coffee shop. She had been worried about Tony letting slip to Ste that Brendan was back in the village. It also showed the real reason for her reluctance to support his taking on the flat and the club. A telltale clink of a glass suggested that Cheryl and Joel had opened the second bottle of wine they had picked up from the off license earlier. Brendan wondered if Cheryl would say anything indiscreet as a result.

"How do I even begin to have the conversation with him? It's so difficult. It took Ste such a long time to get over it all. After a while it was clear that the only way that me and Ste could stay friends was if we never talked about Brendan. And so for years we haven't. It's all a bit 'he who shall not be named'. And then today my brother casually lets slip that Ste carried on sending him letters for years. And that he ignored them all. Can you imagine what that would do to you? Because I can't."

Brendan had to summon all the willpower he had in him to stay where he was rather than entering the lounge to interject. But he supposed Cheryl was right, if he thought about it objectively. Ste couldn't possibly still have a good opinion of him after all of that. Brendan found himself wondering what good had come out of his stubbornness, because it certainly hadn't made him happy, and by the sounds of it Ste had been miserable for a long time too.

"Don't know what to say Cheryl. That'd be tough on anybody. But that's Brendan I guess. I always thought they'd be together in the end, but it's sounding more messed up than I imagined."

"I know what you mean. I hoped for them, but... the moment's passed I think. Ste's got someone else now, and he seems really happy."

Seems?

"Well that's something. Who's the guy?"

"His name's Ben. He's a wine merchant. Doug introduced them a while back, and they hit it off, what with them working in the same trade. Ben works away a lot, but Ste works long hours at the restaurant, so I guess they make it work."

"Does Brendan know?"

"What, that Ste has a fella? Yeah, I told him. Had to really didn't I, in case he got any ideas about steaming in there all guns blazing. It breaks my heart babe to be honest. Truth is, I don't think there'll ever be anyone else for our Bren. Life's so unfair sometimes. God, I'm so worried about him."

"Ah, he'll get over it Cheryl. Brendan's tough."

"He _was_ tough. Now I'm not so sure. And staying here? Running the club?"

There was silence for a while. Brendan was thinking several things at once. Firstly, he was thinking that he hated this Ben on principal. Secondly, that Cheryl seemed certain of Ste's happiness meant that she was in possession of more information about him than she was letting on. Thirdly, the mention yet again of him being anything other than capable of running the club. It was something he had been doing most of his adult life,and he didn't feel it necessary to gain Cheryl's permission.

"Would you rather I sold the Loft to someone else? I'm not bothered about the money or anything. I just wanted rid of the place, don't want anything that Warren tried to saddle me with. And I think Brendan will make it a success. It matters to him, you know?"

Thank you Joel, Brendan thought, making a mental note to ensure his gratitude was conveyed in some way.

"You know what Joel? You're absolutely right. He will make a success of it, I shouldn't be so negative. Think I might stick around a while longer though, just until he's back on his feet and the club's up and running again. Will you drive me to town to check into a hotel tomorrow?"

"Course Chez."

Brendan had known it was coming. Cheryl was so obvious in her protective instincts, and in a way he was glad. He knew that with her support the business was more likely to be well publicised and marketed, not to mention the amount of emotional stability and patience she provided him with. He silently made his way to the bathroom, feeling that he had heard enough.

* * *

 _"You've been coming here for some time now Brendan..."_

 _Brendan has been given a mini sandbox and rake to play with today. There seems to be a different executive toy in front of him with each new session. To begin with, he had wondered if the objects themselves had any clinical significance, if Mark was assessing how he behaved based on what he was given. After a while Brendan decided that he didn't care; he like to fiddle and these little gifts gave him an opportunity to fiddle to his heart's content. He draws a wavy line that resembles an 's' in the box. Mark watches the process, but says nothing. Brendan looks up, realising he is expected to respond._

 _"Sure doc. Every moment with you has been like a dream come true."_

 _"I think it's about time we discuss what brought you here in the first place."_

 _"Okay..."_

 _" You were here at Smithlands for years without incident. And then one day, seemingly out of nowhere, you attack Matthew Wright, in a way that your guards and everyone who comes into contact with you deemed out of character. I'd like to know what your reasons were?"_

 _Brendan sits back on the sofa, twisting the rake in his hands in a rhythmic motion. There is a twitch in his right eye that he cannot control as he thinks back to the events that led him to this office._

 _Matthew Wright had been transferred to Brendan's block carrying with him an unsavoury reputation for blackmail, bullying and outright violence. When Brendan had come across a boy who looked to be not much out of his teens naked on the shower block floor, bleeding and sobbing, he had seen red. The name 'Matthew Wright' was coaxed out of the lad, and Brendan began the hunt. He had stridden into the dining hall and grabbed Wright's head, repeatedly striking it into the edge of the table, food trays flying in all directions and men edging away from the seemingly unprovoked violence. It often struck Brendan as ironic that some violent criminals flinched away from fights and brutality in prison, when it was that precise behaviour on the outside that had landed them there in the first place. Before this he had kept his head down too, avoiding conflict and cultivating a reputation as a loner. But now, Brendan found himself unable to stop, porridge and blood splattering on to his clothes, Wright's teeth spraying out of his mouth in fragments. When the guards finally managed to pull Brendan away, the man's face was barely recognisable as human. Brendan had been like a wild animal, spitting and screaming, yelling at the guards to send help to the shower block._

 _Two and two was eventually put together. The boy who had been retrieved from the shower floor had extensive internal injuries and had lost a lot of blood. He was taken away to be treated and hadn't been seen since. Matthew Wright's jaw had to be reconstructed, but somehow the retribution did not satisfy Brendan as much as it should have done. When questioned about the episode, Brendan clammed up. His only response was to ask about the boy and how he was holding up through his recovery._

 _Sitting in Mark's office, Brendan revisits the memory, delicately prodding at the raw edges of it, feeling a wave of shame flooding the recollection and discolouring it. He remembers the satisfying crack of bone, the eerie silence of the men surrounding him, and the warm salt of blood making his fingers slick and slippery._

 _"It wasn't Wright...in the dining hall, when I...it started as him, but..."_

 _Mark leans forward and gently prises the mini rake out of Brendan's grip. Mark thinks he know what happened to make Brendan snap, but he needs to have his suspicions confirmed._

 _"If it wasn't Matthew Wright that you were attacking, who was it?"_

 _Brendan stares at Mark; shame, anger and confusion mixing and swelling in his head uncomfortably. Seamus' face with the sick, twisted grin that resides in his nightmares flashes in front of his eyes. Brendan wants to scream, wants to push his thumbs into the soft pliable eye sockets and squeeze until the corneas pop underneath his fingernails. Wants to crush the jaw until no teeth are left in that head to deliver the grin that haunts him. Brendan releases a shuddering breath._

 _"Do you really need me to spell it out doc?"_

 _Mark nods._

 _"It would help for you to confirm it Brendan, yes."_

 _"My father. It was Seamus Brady's jaw I was breaking. But that doesn't come as any surprise to you, does it?"_

 _"Not exactly, no. But what you still haven't told me is the why. Why was it your father you were hurting?"_

 _Brendan's eyes glint dangerously in the artificial light of the office._

 _"Did I never tell you about not getting my Knight Rider car for Christmas? Scarred me for life."_

 _"Yes, you did, and funnily enough Brendan I don't buy it. I don't buy your lack of motive for Wright either, any more than I buy your lack of motive for the death of your father."_

 _"Didn't you read that file of mine properly doc? I am what is wrong with the world. A violent, remorseless danger to society who hurts people for no other reason than because he can."_

 _Mark fails to react to Brendan's menacing, growling tone of voice._

 _"You don't believe that anymore than I do."_

 _Brendan raises an eyebrow cynically. Inside though, his heart is thumping erratically in his ears._

 _"None died who didn't deserve to die. Your words, on you arrest."_

 _"What's your point, doc?"_

 _"Matthew Wright admitted to the rape and assault of Leroy James. By my reckoning, you found James after Wright's attack, and he admitted to you what had happened. Some minutes later, you arrived at the dining hall and broke Wright's jaw. You were protecting the boy."_

 _Brendan flinches. Blood in water, spreading steadily across the floor and filtering into the drains. The boy, holding his limbs in a protective position, his body broken and shaking with silent sobs._

 _"Brendan...did your father hurt you?"_

 _Brendan takes a deep lungful of air and closes his eyes so he can't see Mark's expression of sympathy or whatever else he chooses to paint his face with. He nods carefully and deliberately. He hears Mark's strangled exhale of saddened triumph. Brendan opens his eyes again and stares at the shapes in the sandpit, begging the darkness in his mind to stay contained and bearable._

 _"It's not an excuse doc."_

 _He is startled by a gentle hand laid on his knee._

 _"I'll be the judge of that, Brendan. Why don't you start from the beginning?"_


	13. Chapter 13

13.

When Brendan entered the Loft for the first time, it was dark. Fumbling for the light switch, he felt his pulse quicken as the familiarity of the surroundings hit him. It was odd to see the place in its current state. Structurally, everything was where it had always been; the staircases, bars and offices were all in exactly the same locations. However, the aesthetic had changed beyond all recognition. The decor reflected the name of the club, there was a large amount of edgy chrome and up above faux wooden beams had been attached to the ceiling. The bars themselves were topped with railway sleepers and furnished with sleek metal beer pumps, names stylishly etched into the wood underneath. The whole place had an air of warehouse chic, which seemed to be popular in the nightlife scene from what limited experience Brendan had had so far. he didn't hate it, in fact he was quite taken with the industrial effect it had, but the whole thing lacked the personality it had once had as Chez Chez.

Brendan stood at the top of the stairs, staring at the spotless bar, remembering the green glow that used to adorn it. Metallic leather stools had been replaced with high backed wooden chairs, positioned at the sides of the bar to leave the centre of the counter free. He pulled one out and sat down, noting that these seats were much more comfortable than the ones that used to furnish the area. Brendan scanned the spirit selection on display. Common spirits used for cocktails at the bottom, premium offerings at eye level to encourage customers to upgrade. He couldn't believe the amount of gin on display. Joel had mentioned this peculiar revival, but Brendan hadn't really grasped the degree of popularity until he'd seen it with his own eyes. There were new vodkas and rums he hadn't heard of, as well as several bottles of Japanese whiskey positioned near the single malts from Scotland and Ireland. Heading behind the bar, Brendan poured himself a measure from a bottle of seventeen year old, swilling it around the crystal glass and breathing in the aroma with a satisfied moan. He had missed the smell of good whiskey. The burn at the back of his throat as he sipped the amber liquid was also welcome. Being behind the bar felt right, and he stood and savoured the feeling. Looking out at the empty club, Brendan had a sense of belonging that he hadn't really felt since arriving back in the village. The familiar smell of cleaning fluids and alcohol settled him: this was where he was meant to be.

The day before Brendan had spoken with the manager of the Loft on the phone. Between them they had decided that the club would continue to trade in its old guise for a further two weeks, before closing its doors for a rebranding. Brendan wanted to see the place in operation with the current staff members in place before he made any firm decisions about hiring and firing. With a full staff meeting arranged for the following week, Brendan had arranged to pick the Loft's keys up so that he could investigate uninterrupted.

Cheryl had also announced her intention of staying in Hollyoaks in order to help with the club's set up. Of course, due to his eavesdropping, Brendan had already known that his sister was planning on sticking around, but he had been able to show enough surprise and gratitude to satisfy her. Nate had been very understanding, agreeing to keep things ticking over back at the estate, with a promise to visit Brendan and Cheryl in a week or two, which led Brendan to wonder exactly how spur of the moment Cheryl's decision truly was. She certainly seemed to be treading on eggshells around him, demonstrating almost superhuman kindness and patience in the face of Brendan's unpredictable mood swings. Ste's name had not arisen since the day they had seen him in the village; instead both Brendan and Cheryl cautiously tiptoed around that particular elephant in the room whenever it threatened to rear its head.

The past few days had been busy ones for the Bradys anyway, so thankfully there had been little time for heart to hearts. Tony had transferred the rental agreement for the apartment into Brendan's name; three working days were all that stood between Brendan and the official confirmation. Joel had arranged a meeting with his solicitor to sign the Loft over for the following week, before Joel's departure to Glasgow. Brendan had asked Joel whether he would consider staying a little longer to help get the club up and running, but he had refused, wanting to put the village behind him. Brendan was gratified (and a little proud) to hear that Joel had stayed in the hospitality sector, becoming an area manager for a chain of bars popular in Scotland, and he was needed back after his sabbatical to deal with Warren's death had ended. He wasn't one to readily admit to attachments, but Brendan knew he would be sad to see Joel go. The boy had had a tough time in the past, and Brendan had been glad to learn that Joel had turned his experiences into positives; a man with a respectable career and flourishing social life despite the odds. Brendan could hardly blame Joel for wanting to get back to that, and instead contented himself with feeling relieved that they had been provided the chance to bury the grudges from their stormy past.

Brendan had also bitten the bullet and gone into Liverpool for the day to sort out his appearance. After so many years away, he had to essentially start from scratch with clothing, right down to socks and underwear. An hour or two in Flannels with his credit card solved the vast majority of his sartorial problems. He had headed a few doors down after that to see to his hair and face. His thick dark hair had been styled properly; the back and sides trimmed right down, leaving some length at the top to part to one side. The facial hair was also trimmed right back until it was an even spread of stubble across his jaw, with no discernible moustache or beard as such. After this, Brendan had booked in for a facial and a massage, treatments he would never admit to if questioned, but the mirror told of the positive impact afterwards. When he walked into the apartment that evening, Cheryl had stopped what she was doing and shrieked with delight, flinging her arms around his neck and kissing his stubbled cheeks despite his protests.

Slipping a new navy suit and pale blue shirt on that morning, Brendan had caught a glimpse of his reflection and barely recognised the main he saw there. Gone were the dark circles and the pallid skin tone, thanks in part to a couple of well rested nights. The grey patches in his longer beard had been eradicated, making him look younger as a result. In fact, he looked handsome and respectable. It was a far cry from the convicted murderer he knew himself to be, but on the outside at least, that man had been erased and replaced with an eligible businessman.

A familiar reek of blood and salt mingled unpleasantly with the smell of his whiskey, and Brendan sighed, knowing what was going to greet him when he looked up. Sitting on the opposite end of the bar, legs hanging casually to the side, was Walker, glass of his own cradled in one hand. He raised his hand in a toast to Brendan, a contented expression on his face, as though he were happy to wait for Brendan to speak first.

Brendan's brain offered him the rational explanation - that Walker was dead, and as such could not possibly be sitting on the Loft bar drinking whiskey. He squeezed his eyes shut, and open them again with effort. Walker was still there, although now he had his head cocked to the side in a way which suggested he was studying Brendan.

"Something in your eye?" Walker asked, a closed mouth grin spreading over his face. Brendan reached for the bottle behind him and refilled his glass, letting out a little humourless grunt.

"Evidently."

"Haven't seen you in a while. Must be all of the excitement of being out. Had a feeling I might catch up with you here though."

Brendan made a noncommittal noise and threw his whiskey down his throat in the hope that enough of it might dull his senses enough to banish Walker.

"I like what they've done with the place. Added a touch of class to the proceedings."

"What do you want Walker?" Brendan growled, trying to remember if he had taken the tablets that Cheryl had left out for him that morning. Walker laughed, and launched himself off the counter top, landing silently on the other side of the bar to Brendan.

"Not feeling the love today? Always thought you enjoyed my little visits."

"You thought wrong."

"Not very neighbourly Brady."

Walker stopped in front of Brendan, leaning over the bar and staring the other man out. He was dressed in the clothes he had been wearing on the day he had died, an oddly colourless pallor to his skin that made Walker look almost translucent. An acrid scent of iron and decay rolled off him and made Brendan recoil.

"You know, I never really understood the attraction of this place. I mean, it's hardly St Tropez is it? But I suppose, small town club to go with the small time gangster image. It'd be funny if it wasn't so tragic."

"Please don't feel you need to stay in this small town shithole on my account. I'm sure I'll survive without you somehow."

Walker gave no indication that he'd heard Brendan, examining his fingernails instead. Brendan realised with distaste that there was a substance that looked curiously like rust embedded underneath them.

"What I really don't understand is why you'd come back here at all. What you think you have to offer anyone here anymore is beyond me. You surprise me, thinking for one minute that pretty boy of yours would look twice at a middle aged convicted killer like you. Not as much of a catch as you used to be. Take more than a fancy new suit sunshine."

Brendan's ears filled with white noise, everything sounding as though he were underwater. He gave an agonised howl and threw his glass at the bottles on the shelf behind him, sending a cascade of shards shattering and pouring on to the floor, the echo of Walker's laugh punctuating the percussion of the glass smashing.

"Brendan!"

He spun around wildly to see Cheryl standing at the top of the stairs, where he had stood only minutes earlier, worry etched on to her face as though it were a permanent feature. Brendan looked back at the mess behind the bar, then stared down at his hands unseeingly, wondering what had come over him. Walker was gone. In his place stood an empty whiskey glass and a broken mess of Brendan's fears littering the bar. It wasn't until Cheryl hugged him that Brendan realised that he was shaking uncontrollably.

* * *

Since the storm the week before, the rainfall had been relentless. Cheryl stood in the entryway of the apartment, looking outside at the downpour mistrustingly.

"You don't need to come out with me," Joel said, dragging his suitcase down the last step and stopping next to Cheryl.

"Where's Bren?" Cheryl asked, and Joel glanced back up the stairway as though Brendan would be conjured out of thin air.

"Not sure. He said he'd be right down," Joel said, checking his watch and looking outside for any sign of the taxi he had ordered, "listen Cheryl, while we're alone, have you had a chance to talk to Ste yet?"

Cheryl took a deep breath, a guilty expression on her face. She absolutely knew that the unpleasant task had to be completed, and that she ought to be the one to do it. It had been a busy week; Cheryl tried to convince herself that there had not been the time for the heart to heart that needed to take place. In reality, she knew that she had been putting it off. Cheryl was a natural optimist, a woman who wanted the best for everyone, and she prided herself on engineering happy endings if at all possible. Her brother's happy ending however had been and gone; stolen from him through her own actions. The irony was not lost on Cheryl. She was frightened that bringing Ste into the loop would cause Brendan further pain, and that was something she wasn't ready to face.

Some of this must have shown on Cheryl's face, because Joel's expression clouded and he frowned.

"Cheryl..."

Cheryl threw her hands up in helpless exasperation.

"I know Joel, okay? I know I have to do it. I just - what if Ste never wants to see him again? It'd break Brendan's heart and i can't be responsible -"

Joel placed his hands on Cheryl's shoulders, grounding her and causing her to pause.

"You can't know that for sure. And, let's face it Cheryl, you're just delaying the inevitable. Ste _will_ find out sooner rather than later. Wouldn't it be best to have some control over the situation?"

Cheryl's face was pale, her usual colourful palette had been abandoned for the day, and in its place were shadows of anxiety and fear. Tears escaped her eyes, and she wiped them away hastily.

"I just... don't want everything to change."

Joel smiled gently at her, pulling her into a hug.

"It already has Chez," he said, and she nodded into his shoulder miserably.

She thought back to her last meeting with Ste. His restaurant was in a newer development in the village, a square filled with gift shops, bars and cafes. There were bistro style tables neatly arranged outside, and on the summer's day Cheryl had arrived the place was busy and lively. Stepping into the Olive Press Cheryl was faced with an open kitchen, with a large wood fired pizza oven dominating the space. The place was filled with the aromas of garlic and pizza dough, and Cheryl smiled when she noticed Ste stood at the pass, poring over a ticket with one of the more junior chefs. The kitchen was calm, an air of efficiency and confidence about the way the staff worked, and as Ste handed the chef the ticket, patting him on the back as he did so, he glanced up and saw Cheryl in the middle of the floor, a warm expression on her face.

"Chez?" Ste asked, a matching grin spreading as he wiped his hands on a cloth and hastily made his way into the restaurant.

"That's my name, don't wear it out!" Cheryl exclaimed, holding her arms out in invitation. Ste's whole face lit up, and he practically bounded towards Cheryl, throwing himself into a hug, as patrons looked on curiously.

"I can't believe you're here," Ste said, a wondering tone evident in his heavily accented Mancunian speech, "why didn't you tell me?"

"Wanted to surprise you."

Ste scratched the back of his head and let out a snort of laughter.

"Well, mission accomplished! Here, let's get you a table outside, the weather's well nice today," he said, grabbing her arm and steering Cheryl back out the door. The table nearest the window had a reserved sign on it, and Ste ushered her towards one of the empty seats.

"Hang on, isn't someone going to turn up for this table?" Cheryl asked, glancing around at the rest of the seats, which were all occupied. Ste waved his hand and pulled out the chair, motioning for Cheryl to sit down.

"Nah, head chef perks this. Just give me a minute to sort the kitchen and we'll have lunch. I'll grab you a menu."

Ste winked at her and disappeared back inside before Cheryl could say anything else. She watched him go with a surge of affection. He was dressed in pristine chef's whites, except he had rolled the sleeves up to the elbows in a concession to the heat. When he returned, he was holding a menu and a bottle of rose Franciacorta.

"Wait til you try this Chez. It's mint. Never mind prosecco or any of that shite, this stuff is the real deal."

"Wow, can tell that man of yours has given you an education," Cheryl said playfully, holding the stem of her glass as Ste popped the cork and poured the wine expertly. A waitress arrived with an ice bucket, and Ste submerged the bottle, clinking his half glass of wine against Cheryl's full one.

"Yeah, I never realised there was so much to it, but it's dead important right, because if you serve the wrong wine it can make whatever food you serve with it taste proper rank."

Cheryl sipped from her glass, appreciating the bubbles and the company. Ste sat across from her, looking radiantly happy.

"How is it that the rest of us keep getting older while you stay looking like some sort of demi god who hasn't aged in the last ten years?"

"Eh? Shut up. Look at me crow's feet," Ste said, pulling on the skin underneath his right eye and pointing his face at Cheryl, pointing out his barely visible lines at the corner of his lashes.

"Oh yeah. My mistake. You're hideous. Ancient."

Ste contorted his face at Cheryl in response.

"Never mind giving me grief, have a look at that menu. It's changed a bit since you were last here. Got some specials inspired by Northern Italy. Ben took me to Modena with him a couple of months ago, went to a well posh restaurant. Been trying out some stuff I learnt, haven't I."

Cheryl looked from the menu to Ste fondly. He scrunched his face up in confusion under her scrutiny.

"What is it Chez?"

"Nothing love. Just dead proud of you. This place... it's amazing."

She reached across the table to hold his hand, and Ste's whole face lit up at the compliment, smiling with his sparkling goofy grin.

"Ta. Anyway, what you having?"

Ste was always so pleased to see her. It always seemed genuine too, he didn't seem to be interested in holding a grudge against Cheryl, which she was incredibly thankful for. She had only visited him a handful of times since the restaurant had opened, but under Ste's guidance it had gone from strength to strength, and on the last visit the pride had practically shone from him as he suggested food and wine pairings. Cheryl had gone to the Olive Press originally with the intention of telling Ste about Brendan's imminent release, but when it had come down to it, she hadn't plucked up the courage.

As Joel began to release her, Cheryl heard heavy footsteps on the stairwell.

"Is this a private party or can anyone join in?"

She stepped away from Joel as Brendan descended the stairs, a questioning look on his face as he looked between the two of them. He landed at the bottom of the steps with a little exaggerated jump, hands firmly lodged in his suit trouser pockets.

"Good job I'm not of the paranoid persuasion, or I would think that you two had been talking about me."

"Don't flatter yourself Brendan," Joel smirked, and Brendan clamped his teeth together audibly, giving Joel an insincere sarcastic smile.

Cheryl studied her brother, looking for indications of his mental state. He had been so unpredictable and mercurial over the past fortnight that she had resorted to being overly cautious with what she said to him. On this occasion though, the self assured version of Brendan had made an appearance; he was wearing a dark navy shirt with one too many buttons open, the cuffs folded neatly at the top of his forearms. He was clearly headed to the club, for which Cheryl was anxious and grateful for in equal measure.

"You going out Bren?" she asked. He didn't quite meet her eyes.

"Yeah. Headed to the Loft, once I've seen Little Foxy off. Is this your taxi Joel?"

A car pulled up at the entranceway, it's lights flickering in the downpour. Joel patted his pockets out of habit.

"Looks like it, yeah."

Brendan sniffed and stared at the floor, kicking his feet a little on the spot. Cheryl rolled her eyes inwardly; she knew Brendan was hopeless with emotional encounters of any sort.

"We'll miss you, Joel love. Make sure you let us know when you get there."

Joel nodded and kissed Cheryl on the cheek.

"Course I will. Be back soon enough anyway, can hardly miss the grand reopening of Chez Chez can I?"

Brendan threw Joel an almost glacial glare.

"The club won't be called that. Obviously."

"Hey!" Cheryl said, smacking Brendan's arm playfully, "what's wrong with the name Chez Chez?"

"What's right with it?" Brendan muttered, pulling open the door for Joel. Joel gathered his suitcase, and turned towards Brendan. A crack of thunder sounded ominously in the distance.

"Okay, so... Brendan."

Brendan nodded, patting Joel awkwardly on the arm.

"Joel."

Cheryl waited for her brother to say something more heartfelt, but it seemed nothing was forthcoming.

"Safe travels babe,"she called, as Joel dived for the taxi, head bowed against the rain.

"Would it have killed you to say thank you Bren?"

Brendan stood next to Cheryl as she waved the taxi off, carefully standing in the shelter of the doorway.

"He knows, Chez," Brendan cleared his throat, and headed back up the stairs. Cheryl sighed. It was finally time for her to stop putting off the meeting she had been dreading.


	14. Chapter 14

_14._

 _"Everybody fears something Brendan. It's a natural part of the human psyche."_

 _Brendan feels odd. He is bored of raking over the rubble of his fractured mental state. He stares over Mark's head, out of the window. It is a fine and clear spring day. Through the sheer curtain masking his view he can see hints of blue sky and picture book perfect fluffy clouds. Brendan wonders if the glass in the frame is shatter proof or whether, with enough force exerted, he could blast away the barrier to the outside world and make his escape. Granted, it would be a very temporary escape, as Mark's room is on the seventh floor, but Brendan muses on the idea nevertheless; that small taste of freedom surely worth the ultimate sacrifice. Today he has been given a miniature snow globe. Perhaps Mark is running out of ideas on the toy front. He runs his fingers over the smooth, cool surface, finding the weight and regularity of the sphere soothing. Pieces of the swirling glitter catch the light, and he is transfixed by it. Brendan thinks about throwing it at the window. It is a solid, heavy object and it might just work. But then, what would happen to the globe? Would it smash too, rupturing its contents, glitter sent erratically into the wind? The thought leaves Brendan feeling peculiarly bereft._

 _Mark wants him to talk about his fears, and the idea strikes him as frankly laughable. When he was younger, Brendan had liked to paint himself as fearless, someone who would face anything head on, to hell with the consequences. That Brendan had to coat himself with that image, slather himself with recklessness as though it was war paint, did not surprise anyone who truly knew him. His casual, almost throwaway attitude to his own safety and wellbeing was in sharp contrast to his anxieties about those he loved._

 _Mark's question seems insulting. Surely Brendan's hopes and fears don't need spelling out to this man, of all people. He looks up, realises Mark is assessing him, anticipating an answer. Brendan shakes the globe aggressively and places it down on the coffee table. He sits forward, his knees apart, his hands clasped together between them, gazing into the swirling blizzard inside the globe, and then into Mark's eyes, which also inexplicably seem to be dancing with glitter._

 **"I have an unhealthy fear of spiders..."**

 _No. That won't work. He tries a different tack._

 _"Call it a cliche doc, but... I see dead people..." Brendan says in a stage whisper. Mark closes his eyes for a long moment._

 _"No good Brendan, try again."_

 _It's difficult for Brendan not to smirk. After all, hs statement is nearer the truth than most of his disclosures in this room have been. The truth often ended up conjuring drama and upheaval, like his revelation about Matthew Wright and Seamus Brady. That little brush with reality had led to no end of new police interviews, meetings with solicitors and finally an application to assemble a parole board. The spectre of release, of not rotting in prison, is suddenly hovering over Brendan's head , and he isn't sure how he feels about it. A mixture of gratitude to Mark and irritation. A potent brew of feeling like he owes the man something, and that niggling itch of desire. A dangerous and volatile combination._

 _And yet here he is, not that long later, offering up another piece of honesty on a platter, as though in an attempt to balance the debt between them. Brendan_ **did** _see dead people. He was often visited in his cell by Walker, the stench of iron and decay an indication of an otherworldly guest. However to say Brendan finds these encounters frightening is stretching the truth away. Brendan accepted the presence of Walker as part of his punishment for his misdeeds - Walker reminded him of his lack of worth. As if he needed a reminder._

 _But this truth is unacceptable to Mark. He is staring at Brendan intently, and Brendan considers removing the glasses that shield Mark's eyes, leaning in across the table to do so. An intimate, familiar gesture. He wonders if one of Mark's fears is him, and smiles inwardly at the idea._

 _He is drifting. He had begun taking the pills Mark started him on after the glass smashing incident a couple of days before, and they are making it difficult for him to think on his feet. His memories take on the consistency of treacle, as though he has to make it through the syrupy viscous layer of the medication in order to find himself. Assembling his thoughts into one specific direction is proving difficult, things feel curiously out of reach. Brendan rubs his forehead with the palms of his hands in an attempt to make his brain function in its usual way._

 _"Are you okay Brendan?"_

 _Mark's voice and tentative hand on his knee make Brendan look up, forcing his eyes to focus._

 _"Uh-huh. A little groggy is all. Nothing to worry about."_

 _"I do worry Brendan. A lot."_

 _Is that an answer to Brendan's question? Is Mark afraid of him? He finds this notion irresistibly hilarious, and in the next moment he is snorting out barely suppressed laughter, placing one of his hands over Mark's on his knee. Mark watches the movement, but doesn't take his hand away._

 _"Least I know what_ _ **your**_ _fear is now, eh doc."_

 _Mark frowns and shakes his head._

 _"You don't scare me Brendan, you misunderstand me. I meant... I worry about you. Worry for you."_

 _Brendan feels as though the air has solidified, there is a still, awkward heat that refuses to dissipate keeping him pinned to the spot. Mark is close, almost as close as when Brendan had grabbed him and growled and spat in his face. There had been something erotic about that, he remembers. Something that had coloured the anger, leaving Brendan breathless and half hard. This didn't feel like that. He searches for the reason why, and a name hovers, just out of reach. Big blue eyes flash in his peripheral vision, beautiful eyes filled with longing. Steven. Of course. Always Steven. His mouth readies itself to form a word almost entirely of its own volition._

 _"Inappropriate," Brendan thinks, and then says, seemingly without any space in between. Mark blinks and sits back, pulling his hand out of Brendan's unresisting grip. Brendan needs to lie down; he feels woozy, peculiar. Mark coughs his polite, apologetic cough, and Brendan wants to punch him, wants to hear the crack of his nose and feel the flesh split and bloom blood onto his knuckles._

 _"Brendan, there is now a real possibility that you may be released a lot earlier than you had prepared for. I want you to think carefully about your fears for the new future you are faced with. Shall we leave the session there for today?"_

 _Brendan nods, not trusting himself to speak, wondering if he might be sick._

 _Later, Brendan lies on his bed, the room whirring unpleasantly around him. He has emptied the contents of his stomach, but still feels queasy and unlike himself. The block doctor had been called, but had left shortly afterwards, proclaiming nothing could be done. Side effects, he said. Give it a few days and they should subside, he said. Brendan asked if he would make it that long, and the doctor laughed graciously at his melodrama._

 _When he falls asleep, Brendan dreams he is trapped in the snow globe, glittering ice falling perpetually around him. He shouts for help, presses his palms against the glass, but no sound comes out, everything is mute, muffled. He sees a steady stream of his loved ones through the glass, but no matter how hard he tries to get their attention it is clear that they cannot see or hear him. Brendan pushes his face against the curved dome, his cheek absorbing the chill of the glass. He watched as Steven, Cheryl, his boys line up on a wooden platform. With a sense of dread forming in his stomach he recognises that the platform is in fact a scaffold, nooses hanging from the structure ominously. He screams until his throat is raw, despite emitting no sound at all apart from a rasping agonised whisper as the ropes are looped around their necks. He throws himself against the glass until his shoulder aches, but the barrier resolutely remains. A hooded figure pulls a lever and Brendan wakes, shouting for it to stop. He is covered in sweat and his throat feels torn to ribbons. Dropping from his bed to his knees, he heaves bile on to the floor until his stomach muscles cramp, sobs wracking through him painfully, helplessness and the terror of it gripping at him from every side._

 _The next time Brendan wakes, he is curled into a foetal position on the concrete floor, shivering and uncomfortable. The previous day's events swim through his head in an incoherent muddle. What stays with him from his nightmare is the fear and vulnerability that rendered him powerless. It was the answer to Mark's question, but not an answer he intended to confront._

 _Three weeks go by. The courts assemble a parole board. It is agreed that Brendan's sentence is coming to an end._

* * *

The buzzer to Ste's flat sounded unnaturally loud to Cheryl's ears as she pressed a manicured finger to it the evening after Joel had left. It was late; Ste had been working and had invited Cheryl to come round once his shift had finished. When he answered the door he was wearing loose charcoal tracksuit bottoms and a plain white t shirt, hair damp and sticking up in all directions, clearly fresh from the shower. Ste grinned at Cheryl and ushered her in, apologising for the lateness of the hour.

"Had one table that just would not leave, We'd finished clean down ages ago, but it's rude to throw people out when they're paying customers, isn't it?"

"Sorry love. If you're tired I completely understand..."

Cheryl gestured back towards the door, but Ste shook his head, leading her through to the lounge instead.

"Don't be daft Cheryl. Hardly get to see you as it is, do I? Now, sit yourself down while I open the wine."

Cheryl sank gratefully into the huge blue corner sofa that took up most of the room. Ste's flat was situated in Oakdale Drive, in one of the buildings that had previously been occupied by students. It had recently been revamped into apartments for the professional: everything was sleek and modern but economical on the space front. Ste had clearly decorated the living area, as it was more homely than the rest of the flat, with cosy throws tossed over each arm of the sofa, and photographs lining the wall above the fireplace. Cheryl noticed images of Leah and Lucas appeared with the most frequency, interspersed with family shots with the children, him and Amy when they were younger. A recent addition was a photo that looked to have been taken abroad, which showed Ste as he was now, with his arms flung around a handsome older man's neck, both smiling and tanned. Cheryl took the goblet of red wine she was offered and gestured to the wall.

"Is that him? The lovely Ben I've heard so much about?"

Ste's eyes followed Cheryl's gaze and he grinned, taking a sip from his own glass.

"Yeah that's him. We were in Greece mixing business with pleasure. Well fit, isn't he?"

"God, I'll say. Is he not here?"

Ste curled his feet up under him on the couch and cradled his glass in both hands. He looked much younger than his years to Cheryl.

"No. You seem to keep missing him Chez. He's in Spain until the end of the week. At some vineyards in the south west for one of the suppliers. How long are you sticking around for? I'd love you to meet him."

Cheryl smiled sadly, swirling the ruby liquid in her glass around thoughtfully. Her nerves were on fire, and she felt unutterably sad for her brother. The Ste in front of her was happy, healthy and undamaged. A little dark under the eyes from long hours at the restaurant perhaps, but otherwise glowing, content in his own skin. It was hard to imagine such a stark contrast to Brendan and his darkness.

"I'd love to meet him babe. Just name a date and I'll be there."

Ste's eyes narrowed at Cheryl's muted tone.

"Chez, is everything okay?"

"How do you mean?" she asked a little too quickly, taking a slurp of wine to avoid eye contact.

"Well don't get me wrong, it's great to see you, but how come you're back here so soon? Hollyoaks is hardly the centre of the universe, is it?"

Cheryl fidgeted, pulling one of the furry throws over her knees as a sort of protective shield.

"Last time I was here was for Warren's funeral..."

Ste nodded slowly, indicating that he expected more of an explanation, as she had told him about Joel and Warren at their last meeting (an edited version though it had been). Cheryl took a deep breath.

"...And I was also here to visit Brendan."

There was a weighted silence. Brendan's name had not been uttered between them for years. Ste's eyes widened and he subconsciously clutched one hand to his throat as though the name had gotten stuck there. He coughed, clearing his throat and leant to put his glass down on the coffee table. Cheryl noticed his hand had become unsteady.

"Is he - I mean - is he..."

Cheryl reached across to place a hand on Ste's knee comfortingly.

"He's fine love. He's okay."

Ste let out a long shuddering breath that sounded suspiciously like relief to Cheryl. She wondered what Ste had thought she was going to say.

"Believe me babe, I've gone over how to tell you this in my head so many times, but I wasn't sure of the right words..."

"Cheryl, you're scaring me now. Just tell me what's going on."

Cheryl looked into Ste's face, which had been so lively and content earlier, had now drained of all its colour. She echoed Ste's movements and placed her wine glass down before she grabbed both of his hands in hers.

"Okay... a few months ago Brendan was referred to a therapist, and it seems he told him about dad. To cut a long story short, they put Brendan in front of a parole board, and, well..."

Cheryl tailed off, and Ste closed his eyes, gripping Cheryl's hands so hard she could feel his nails leaving crescent moons in her palms.

"Just say it, Cheryl. Please," he whispered quietly.

"They granted him parole. Brendan was released three weeks ago."

Abruptly, Ste released Cheryl's fingers and bolted up from the couch, coming to his feet unsteadily and grabbing onto the mantelpiece for stability.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Ste muttered, leaving the room swiftly. Cheryl stifled a sob as the sound of Ste retching reached her through the doorway. She knew it would come as a shock to him; it had been a shock to Cheryl too when Brendan's solicitor had confirmed the news. But of course, Cheryl had never stopped being a part of Brendan's life, whereas Ste had been unceremoniously cut from the picture, despite his best efforts to the contrary. She couldn't help but wonder what those years of crushed hope must have cost Ste. How much effort must it have taken for him to move on and allow himself happiness.

When Ste returned he looked more like a lost little boy than a self assured and successful man. He sat back down, an exhausted slump to his shoulders, and took a heavy gulp of wine.

"Babe, I'm so sorry. The last thing I wanted to do was upset you."

"No Chez. Don't apologise. I don't even know why I reacted like that. God I must seem pathetic."

"No love, not at all. It's a shock, it's understandable."

"I knew there was something up last time you was here. Told myself I was being stupid, but... I felt it."

Ste pushed his palm into his eye, trying to stem the flow of tears that had begun. Cheryl didn't know what to say.

"I had to tell you hun. It wouldn't have been fair for you to find out any other way. I was so worried that you would see him and you wouldn't be prepared."

Ste looked at Cheryl intently then, watery eyes suddenly alive with something she couldn't identify.

"He's here?" Ste asked, a mixture of hope and dread evident in his question. Cheryl nodded carefully.

"Yeah, he's here."

Ste began to cry properly then, and Cheryl enfolded him into a gentle hug, letting him sob into her shoulder. Some time later, the sobs subsided into sniffs. Cheryl drew soothing circles on his back, patiently waiting for Ste to regain control.

"Brendan..." Ste said the name as though to himself. Although his voice was congested, Cheryl could swear she heard affection, even longing. Perhaps there was hope after all.

"How is he Chez?" Ste asked, shuffling up out of her arms to look at her. Cheryl smiled and thought about her brother and his first few weeks in the outside world.

"You know what he's like, wants to be independent, do everything on his own. But he's quiet. Sad."

Ste nodded and wiped his face a little now that he's regained composure.

"I can imagine. He always did hate having to depend on anyone didn't he."

Cheryl searched Ste's face, wondering if she should push her luck.

"I know he'd like to see you..."

Ste let out a little huff of breath and looked at Cheryl disbelievingly.

"Cheryl. He cut me off completely. I haven't spoken to him, never mind seen him, in ten years."

"He thought he was doing what was best for you. How was he to know they'd release him sooner? And look at you now. Own home, amazing job, wonderful fella... you can't tell me that waiting for our Bren would have been best for you love, regardless of him being released or not."

"And now? What happens now Chez?"

"Well, that sort of depends on you."

"How do you mean?"

"You'll find out soon enough. Bren is the new owner at the Loft. He's staying in the village. So, even if you wanted to, I'm not sure you'd be able to avoid him forever."

Ste frowned.

"Why would I want to avoid him?"

Cheryl shrugged.

"Not sure I'd blame you."

"No... I want... I can't believe this is happening. I spent so long hoping I'd see him again Chez."

"I know love."

Cheryl regarded Ste warily. He looked as though he had retreated into another place altogether. The look he directed at Cheryl was haunted.

"Brendan was everything to me."

"I know -"

"Do you though? Because I couldn't breathe without him, couldn't bear the thought of being with anyone else. It took such a long time to get over him..."

"But you are over him?"

"I'm with Ben."

"That's not what I asked."

A shadow crossed Ste's face. Cheryl knew the reaction she had seen from Ste was hardly the response of somebody who no longer cared. Guilt trickled through her veins, as she thought yet again about the future she had stolen from her brother and Ste.

"Oh God. This is all my fault," Cheryl said, her voice cracking. Ste shook his head firmly.

"No Chez. It's not."

"But if I'd just told the truth all those years ago, you'd still be together, and..."

Cheryl broke off, her turn to sob. She realised that she had been repressing so many conflicting emotions over the past few weeks; it had left her weary and confused. Brendan never threw the years he had spent in prison back at her. After all, both Brendan and Cheryl knew that as far as he was concerned, Seamus would have been the least of his supposed crimes, even if it was ironically the only one he had ever been convicted of. But she didn't know if Ste would be as forgiving. Their friendship had survived over the years through their unspoken agreement to never mention Brendan, and now that it had all been uncovered again, Cheryl was unsure if Ste would be able to get past it.

Unexpectedly, a hand held on to hers gently. Ste smiled at her.

"What happened happened, right? I've never blamed you Chez. It was always going to catch up with Brendan eventually, people can't live the way he did and get off scot free. I should have realised that then but I didn't want to believe it. What happened at the club - it weren't your fault. You shouldn't think that. Brendan doesn't blame you does he?"

Cheryl laughed at that, sniffing and trying valiantly to stem her flow of tears.

"No, course not."

"Well then. Come here," he said, closing Cheryl into a hug once more.

"Thanks love. I'm sorry, it's just brought everything back, being here, and having Brendan back... it's harder than I thought it'd be."

"I get it Chez. If anyone gets how hard it is, it's me, okay? So don't ever be sorry. Eh, does he know you're here?"

Cheryl broke away from Ste, a guilty expression on her tearstained face. Ste rolled his eyes with a trace of amusement as he picked up his wine glass.

"Ha. Course he doesn't."

"Not for the reason you're thinking love. He does want to see you. We saw you in the village the other day and I practically had to rugby tackle him to the ground to stop him waltzing over like nothing had ever happened."

"You saw me - when?"

"I think you were with Leah? The day of that really bad storm."

Ste's eyes lit up with recognition, and he shook his head disbelievingly.

"As if I was just going about my life, no idea..."

"Frankly, I'm glad you didn't see us. Bren looked bloody awful," Cheryl said in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Eh? How come?"

"Oh don't worry, it's fine now, he's had a wardrobe revamp and a haircut."

"Okay. Just tell me this though. If he's at the club, and he knows where I am, and he wants to see me, then why the hell hasn't he come and talked to me himself?"

"So you _**do**_ want to see him."

"Never said I didn't," Ste said irritably.

"It's my fault. I asked him not to meddle, told him you were happy. I didn't want him to, well, you know..."

"Come straight back into my life and fuck it all up?" Ste helpfully supplied.

"Yeah, pretty much."

Ste looked up again at the photos on the wall. Cheryl didn't want to disturb him, as he seemed to be making his mind up about something.

"I do. Want to see him I mean. I never thought I'd get the chance again. I want to see him Chez."

Cheryl's heart swelled with relief, and she smiled at Ste's resolute expression, patting him affectionately on the knee. No matter what happened in the future, in that moment she loved Ste for loving her brother.

"Of course love. Of course."


	15. Chapter 15

15.

One thing that Brendan particularly disliked about therapy was the time before the appointment, sitting in the waiting room. There was something unnerving about a waiting room no matter where it was a precursor for. The waiting room at Mark's offices was no exception: a line of plush ecru leather armchairs, interspersed with clinically provoking (no doubt) wood cuttings, and the obligatory piles of dogeared magazines from months ago. Brendan slouched in the nearest chair to the door so that he could escape the place as soon as his name was called. He played the funeral march using his hands and jean clad thighs, leather jacket creaking unpleasantly against the leather of the chair. A woman who was sat a few seats away from him glared at him over the top of her magazine. Brendan stared back, chewing his gum more antagonistically until she looked away. He gave a grunt of satisfaction and went back to playing tunes on his legs. Another thing he hated about waiting rooms - the bland colour of the walls. They were always the same neutral tone, completely devoid of personality or individuality. And the forced polite social convention that insisted upon silence and pretending not to notice anyone else who might be sharing space in that contrived hell? Brendan rolled his eyes, as he noticed one of the receptionists approaching the door.

"Mr Brady, do you want to come through?"

Brendan launched himself up, looking back at the unfriendly female resident of the room on his way out.

"Good chat. No? Okay then."

Mark wasn't behind his desk when Brendan closed the door of the office behind him. He was on the sofa opposite the desk instead, his feet up, writing in a notebook. As the door clicked closed, Mark looked up and smiled.

"Brendan. How have you been? Come in."

Brendan crossed the room and sat in the armchair next to the sofa, raising an eyebrow at Mark's greeting.

"I'm already in doc, but thanks for the invite."

Mark smiled and took off his glasses, folding them and placing them and his notebook on to the coffee table. He leant forward and pressed his lips on to Brendans. Brendan didn't respond, but didn't move away either. Mark pulled back a little, handsome face twisted into a frown.

"Everything alright?"

Brendan put a finger over his own mouth and made a noise low in his throat, his breathing heavy as it always was when he was trying to retain composure. He looked at Mark through hooded eyes, and Mark touched Brendan's jaw gently.

"Don't," Brendan muttered, without much conviction.

"This is new. The stubble, the shorter hair. It's pretty hot."

Brendan's hand pressed into the bridge of his nose and he huffed his humourless laugh. Deep breaths. Count to ten.

"This isn't a social call doc."

"Ah? But your official appointment time isn't for another twenty minutes. I was under the impression that -"

"My sister is coming to the session today."

"Ah. Cheryl's coming?" Mark asked, as he moved away from Brendan reluctantly, gathering his belongings and returning to his desk and the barrier it afforded. Brendan breathed out a little, staring up at the ceiling to avoid further eye contact.

"Yeah. She's... I don't know, worried about..."

"You?" Mark prompted, elbows propped on the desk, resting his chin in the cradle of his hands.

"Yeah. Whatever. Anyway, I wanted to make sure she isn't going to get any surprises."

Mark stared at Brendan for a long moment, before bursting into a fit of laughter. Brendan's forehead creased in confusion. He loathed feeling that he was on the back foot.

"Okay... clearly missing the joke here."

Mark pulled a tissue out of the box on his desk and dabbed his eyes with it.

"I'm sorry. Sometimes I almost forget how messed up you are, and then you go and say something like this. Asking your therapist to hide from your sister the fact that you've been sleeping with said therapist. You really do hate taking responsibility for your actions don't you?"

The words stung and Brendan had to stop himself from flinching. He knew Mark was right, but it hardly made the facts more palatable.

"Look doc, I'm not sure what you're expecting now that I'm out..."

Mark raised his eyes cynically.

"What would I possibly expect from you Brendan?"

"Well I'm not the hearts and flowers type of guy."

"No, I hadn't supposed you were."

"And this, it's a clear... what do you call it?"

Brendan clicked his fingers a couple of times as if searching for the words.

"Conflict of interests?" Mark suggested, and Brendan pointed at him, false smile twisting his features.

"Right. Conflict of interest."

"It's never bothered you before."

"No? No, well I'm a changed man. Reformed character."

"Is that right?" Mark asked, amused expression on his face. He got up once more from his desk and leant over Brendan, arms propped up either side of him. Brendan didn't move.

"Mmhmm..." Brendan murmured, staring at Mark with dark eyes. The power of desire. Brendan felt drunk on it, even if it was ostensibly wrong on every level. Mark kissed him again, an open mouthed kiss, and this time Brendan responded. The attraction felt dirty, dysfunctional. He was convinced that it was more that he was turned on by the situation, rather than by Mark himself. He wasn't exactly Brendan's type after all. Blue eyes full of hurt flashed through his mind, and Brendan placed the flat of his palm firmly on Mark's chest, pushing him away. They were both a little out of breath as a knock on the door sounded. Mark let his head hang and laughed a little, before readjusting his collar and crossing the room to open the door.

"Cheryl? Good to see you. Please come in."

As she entered the room Cheryl studied her brother carefully. Brendan inwardly groaned. Trust Cheryl to become observant at precisely the time he hoped she wouldn't be. He watched her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly as she glanced between Mark and Brendan, searching for signs of something being wrong. Brendan supposed that Mark's pink stubble rashed mouth wasn't that noticeable unless she was looking for it, and he hoped that the flush of arousal on his face had faded. Cheryl perched awkwardly on the sofa, placing her bag on the floor next to her feet.

"You okay Bren?" she said quietly, glaring a little at Mark, who had taken his place at his desk once more. Brendan felt dread pool in his stomach. Cheryl had obviously seen or caught something she didn't like from Mark within the first two minutes in his office. Brendan smiled tightly and patted Cheryl's knee awkwardly.

"Yeah, course. Glad you're here Chez."

Mark cleared his throat to indicate the session was about to begin.

"So... it's great that you've decided to come today, Cheryl. Family involvement in therapy is absolutely encouraged, particularly at this stage."

"Well, I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get my brother better."

Brendan felt as though Cheryl was deliberately trying to make him feel guilty. What did 'better' look like when connected to Brendan Brady anyway? He knew he was sabotaging her attempts to help him on a reasonably regular basis. Brendan didn't like taking the tablets he had been prescribed. Cheryl had gone to the trouble of buying a daily container and organising the tablets into it for him, but still he often forgot. And when he forgot, anxiety clawed its way through his body and rendered him paralysed. He had stood in one spot in the Loft for over an hour, unable to pull himself back into the present. The other unpleasant side effect was Walker's occasional appearance to taunt and belittle Brendan; encounters that never ended well for the Loft's glassware.

Brendan had been sure to remember that morning, but his inconsistency in taking them meant that the medication left him feeling off kilter, twitchy and nauseous. He hoped that the reckless behaviour with Mark earlier could be excused as a symptom too.

In all honesty Brendan wasn't sure _how_ to get better. Any notion he had about what might be good for him seemed to be instantly dismissed by everyone else as a bad idea.

"So Brendan. It's been a month now since release. How has everything been?"

Brendan looked at Cheryl, who gave him an encouraging nod. He cleared his throat.

"Well, I've managed not to kill anyone yet, so that's good I guess."

Cheryl smacked Brendan's arm with the back of her hand.

"Ow! Come on, it was a joke Chez."

"Not a funny one."

"Don't worry Cheryl, I'm fully versed in Brendan's irreverence at this stage," Mark said with a slight smile. Apparently Cheryl still wasn't amused; her eyes had narrowed and she looked as though she was about to launch into a speech she had prepared for this very occasion.

"Doctor Phillips, I wonder if you can tell me if you think Brendan staying in Hollyoaks is a good idea? Because I'm not sure it's the best thing for him, yet he's determined to do it."

"For fucks sake Chez, I'm not a child. I can decide things for myself, without you having to tell on me."

"I'm not 'telling on you' Bren, I just want to be sure that you are doing everything right -"

"What I do and where I live doesn't really have anything to do with the doc though, does it?"

Mark held up a hand, motioning for Brendan and Cheryl to stop.

"So, Brendan, you're planning on moving back to Hollyoaks, am I correct?"

Before Brendan could open his mouth to answer, Cheryl was ready to respond.

"He's moved back already. Not to mention getting the club back, another of my brother's recent masterstrokes."

Brendan groaned and stared at Cheryl disbelievingly.

"Seriously Chez?"

"Hold on, the club? Chez Chez?"

"He's told you about the club then. The place was nothing but trouble."

"Forgive me, but it can't always have been trouble," Mark said, looking at Brendan with an unreadable expression. Cheryl had the grace to look confused.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm sure Brendan wouldn't want to return to the club if everything you had there had been all bad. Surely it had its moments."

Brendan studiously avoided Cheryl's eyeline. He knew what she was thinking, because he was thinking it too. It was there, written in his skin - every scar created in anger, every crease around the eye formed from unaccustomed smiles. The moments Mark was referring to all involved the same person for Brendan, and he and Cheryl both knew it. She smiled the sad smile that now seemed to be reserved for her brother.

"I guess without Chez Chez, you'd have never had Ste."

Mark's eyebrows shot up. Brendan growled; he knew Mark would be connecting the dots using the very few mentions there had ever been of Ste.

"Enough Chez," Brendan said through gritted teeth.

"What? Surely you've talked about Ste during therapy?"

White noise buzzed unpleasantly in Brendan's ears, and he jumped up out of his seat, unable to sit still with the tension pulling at him from within his head. He couldn't listen to Cheryl discuss Ste as though Brendan had any right to him. As though the memories mattered to anyone but him. He certainly didn't want to share anything so precious with Mark. He paced a little, pretending to check his watch.

"Bren..." Cheryl said uncertainly. She didn't know what to do when he got into the mood he was in.

"Yeah. Yeah, listen, I'm late. For a thing. I'm just going to..." Brendan backed towards the exit, stuffing his hands into his pockets in a protective gesture.

"Brendan don't you dare walk out. Brendan, we're supposed to be having dinner tonight remember. Brendan!" Cheryl called after him, but the door slammed and any response he had given was lost. She sighed and looked at Mark apologetically.

"I'm so sorry about that Doctor Phillips. I don't know what gets in to him sometimes."

"Does he always run away in situations he doesn't feel in control of?"

Cheryl laughed a little hysterically.

"Yep. That's our Brendan. Where emotions are concerned, he is hopeless. Always has been."

"This Ste you mentioned...it's the same Steven Hay that he lived with before prison?

Cheryl frowned.

"Yeah. But look Doctor Phillips, if Brendan hasn't talked about it then I'm not sure I'm comfortable saying anything. Especially when he's not here."

"Of course. It's good to see how much you care about your brother. And I think Brendan's on the right track. Recovery is easier when people are somewhere they are comfortable."

"You think so? Because I've got to be honest, some days I look at him and I wonder if he'll ever be okay. Wonder if he's simply been through too much to ever be 'normal', whatever that means."

"He was in prison for a long time. And for most of that time he was dealing with his past traumas on his own, without any support. Up until a few weeks ago, Brendan still thought he would be spending roughly twenty more years in a cell. Give him time Cheryl. Brendan needs to adjust."

Cheryl watched Mark, trying to work out why there was a niggling doubt about him in the back of her mind.

"You like Brendan, don't you?" Cheryl asked.

"He's an intriguing patient certainly. Intense. Unusual sense of humour."

"You know, the thing with our Bren. When he cares about you, it can be addictive. If he loves, he loves fiercely, and there's no coming back from it. Bren's loyal. But loving like that... it makes him vulnerable."

"Is that how it was with Steven?"

"I'd never known Bren to be in love before. I don't know if I'll ever see it again either. As I said - love like that, it doesn't fade, doesn't just go away."

"Not for Brendan anyway."

Cheryl picked up her bag and leant across the desk to shake Mark's hand politely.

"Not for either of them Doctor Phillips. That's why it hurts so much, and why Brendan won't talk about it. I'll see myself out. It was good to meet you."

Cheryl left the office, trying not to panic about the look she had seen in the doctor's eyes when she had spoken about Brendan. She hoped her instincts were wrong, but she was worried. Perhaps, she thought to herself, it was time for a new therapist for her brother.


	16. Chapter 16

16.

"Hello Irish."

Brendan was at the bar, holding a clipboard full of stock levels, directing the young barman to use the crates perched on the counter to fill up the fridge stock. It had been a good week; the Loft had two more days of trading before the refurbishment commenced. Brendan and the manager, Stuart, had organised a ticketed event for the following evening that was a sell out. In fact, Brendan had even assembled a waitlist, such was the demand. Brendan liked working with Stuart, and was considering keeping him on. He was a consummate professional and knew exactly what he was doing behind a bar. It had meant that Brendan had been able to spend time on the floor, speaking to the staff, watching them work, making notes on the current rotation of DJs and sketching out promotions for the new lines he hoped to bring in.

What Brendan observed pleased him. The Loft was doing well; the clientele had thankfully grown up since his last tenure, with the club now catering to a market Brendan liked, which was professionals with disposable income. He had noticed that the whole village had actually undergone a similar shift, as there were a number of cafes, bars and restaurants that seemed to be aimed the same way.

The top floor of the Loft was open on a Friday afternoon, but wasn't very busy, so Brendan had taken the opportunity to get a bit of housekeeping out of the way before the weekend began in earnest. He had dispensed with his suit jacket earlier to rifle through the fridges with greater ease. Underneath it he was wearing his new favourite slate grey shirt, cuffs neatly turned up, because although Brendan would never admit to dressing to impress, there was definitely a small slightly vain part of him that wanted Anne to see him at his best.

Brendan turned, clipboard still in hand, to see Anne standing at the top of the stairs, hands on her tiny hips in an exaggerated pose, wide smile on her pink lipstick slicked mouth. Brendan felt a flood of warmth. She had barely changed, still had a mane of hair and a tiny emerald green dress on that looked like it would be tricky to sit down in.

"Anne," Brendan said gruffly, moving towards her. He chanced a look back at the barman, who had ceased his restock and was staring at Anne longingly.

"Hey, put your tongue back in your head and get back to work," Brendan barked, clicking his fingers and forcing the young lad back into action.

"Ahhh, he's only human Bren, leave the boy alone. Anyway, come here," Anne held out her arms and Brendan raised his eyes in protest.

"Drop the tough guy act for five minutes and give us some love!"

He had an armful of Anne before he could blink. The protest had only been staged; Brendan was immeasurably pleased to see her, pleased that she had come all of this way for him. Anne released him and without warning slapped the side of his arm. Brendan flinched - it hadn't hurt but it was unexpected.

"What was that for?"

"That? Is for never replying to my letters. Least you deserve frankly."

There was a lightness to Anne's tone that didn't match the hurt evident in her big brown eyes. Brendan wasn't sure what his excuse was. His motivations and mindset from those early days in prison seemed a long way off. He decided that any explanation would have to wait until later.

"Perhaps a free drink would persuade you to forgive me?" Brendan said smoothly, making his way behind the bar. Anne followed, climbing on to one of the bar chairs as gracefully as someone of her height could. Brendan bent down to retrieve the champagne he had put in the refrigerator earlier.

"Suppose it's a start," Anne said with a smile, "you're looking good Irish."

Brendan set about filling an ice bucket and pulling down two glasses.

"Got to have the raw materials in the first place to pull off prison chic."

"Well you've got them babe."

Brendan popped the cork with practised nonchalance and began to pour.

"No exposure to sunlight doesn't work for everyone. Only looks good on vampires and..."

"Nightclub owners?" Anne supplied, "least it means no wrinkles, you are wonderfully preserved."

Brendan handed her the glass and sipped out of his own.

"Yeah well, years of not living will do that for you."

Anne laughed and held her glass out for Brendan to clink with his own.

"Ugh. I keep getting deja vu. It's like stepping into a time warp being back in here."

"Yeah? Hadn't noticed."

Anne looked at him, cynical expression on her face.

"You liar. You mean you don't half expect to see Warren Fox strolling out of that office door?"

"I hope not. Not sure of the welcome he'd be getting. Unlikely anyway, on account of his current situation."

"Can't say I'm sorry."

"No, me neither."

Brendan sat on the seat next to Anne. He knew exactly what she meant of course. Every corner of this building held memories; the good, the bad and the ugly. It wasn't enough that the place had been redecorated, it was in the very fabric of the club, the bricks and mortar held the stains of Brendan's reign.

"Hey, do you remember the night that I put on a lingerie party?"

"How could I forget?"

Anne had a wicked grin on her face, twirling the stem of her champagne flute casually.

"I honestly don't know how people missed you being gay, especially after that night. No interest in me or the other scantily clad models. And not to mention all the gay sex with young Steven."

Brendan's first instinct was to tell Anne to be quiet, change the subject, but in truth he wasn't sure he wanted that. He was also desperate to talk about Ste with someone who wasn't his sister, and the urge to do so was nearly overwhelming. Anne clearly noticed the conflict on Brendan's face.

"Have you spoken to Ste?"

Brendan sighed, shook his head and knocked back the rest of his champagne. He felt in need of something stronger; instead he topped up both glasses, watching the bubbles dance and fizz and pop when they reached the surface.

"Why not?" Anne asked carefully, as though afraid to spook him into anger. Out of the corner of his eye, Brendan noticed Walker sauntering through the club towards the office, manic grin on his pallid face and a vicious chuckle pouring out of his mouth. In his head, Brendan heard Walker's voice repeating, "do you think for one minute that pretty boy of yours would look twice at a convicted murderer? Do me a favour."

Brendan blinked, closing his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, Walker was gone.

"If he still thinks of me at all, it'll be to be angry with me. I cut him off, Anne."

"You did that to me too and I'm still here aren't I? I understand you and why you felt you had to do it, and I'm **_not_** madly in love with you. Ste's got even more reason to know that you were trying to do the right thing."

"Hardly likely to still be madly in love with me, as you put it. Not with what I've done."

Anne waved her hand, as if murder was something inconsequential that could be swept aside.

"Oh please. Ste loves you. He wouldn't care."

"What makes you so sure that he could still feel anything for me?"

Brendan knew the answer before Anne said anything, and he instantly felt guilty for causing her pain.

"Because it's been nearly twelve years, without seeing him, without touching him. Without hearing his voice. And despite that, Riley's still in here," she said, putting a clenched fist to her heart, "and not a day goes by when I don't think of him. You don't just forget the love of your life Brendan."

A couple of bar staff appeared, unloading the dishwasher noisily and obliviously, breaking the spell somewhat. Brendan glared at them, but couldn't think of a legitimate reason to shout at them for actually doing their job. When he looked back at Anne, regret and a deep ingrained sadness marring her otherwise beautiful features, it was clear she was expecting a response.

"Ah, Riley. Some of my best work."

Walker's voice whispered as though it was right next to his ear, and Brendan swatted at the empty air next to his head, affording him a frown from Anne. He scratched his jaw in an attempt to distract from his erratic behaviour. In through the nose, out through the mouth, Brendan thought almost despite himself.

"I need a drink," he muttered, mainly to himself, and moved behind the bar to fill a glass with whiskey. It felt good to have the bar between him and Anne, he felt more in control. Anne was still looking at him expectantly.

"You still...you know," Brendan gestured with his tumbler at Anne and she rolled her eyes.

"Well I'm not living as a nun Brendan. But no matter who I date, no matter who I end up with, no one will ever quite measure up."

He grunted and leant over the bar, arms firmly crossed in front of him.

"That's how I know it was the real deal. You still love Ste, right?"

"You're seriously asking me that? Seriously?"

"So why is it beyond the realms of possibility that he still feels it too?"

Because he should hate me, Brendan thought. Because I should have changed, reformed, but I haven't. Because I might not be redeemable and I couldn't stand building his hopes up only to break his heart all over again.

"Oh Brendan," Anne sighed, as though she could tell what was going through his head just by looking at him.

"He's got someone else," Brendan offered up instead.

"So?"

"He won't want to see me. Chez told me to stay away from him."

"I might have been wrong about that."

When Anne and Brendan turned around, they saw Cheryl standing by the entrance. She waved a little awkwardly.

"Hey bro. Mitzeee," she said in greeting. Anne mimicked Cheryl's hand gesture and waited for Brendan to process a coherent thought. He shook his head as if trying to clear it.

"What does 'I might have been wrong mean'? What am I meant to do with that?"

Cheryl approached the bar tentatively.

"I went to see Ste. I told him you were out."

Brendan felt his heart ricochet against his ribs. After overhearing Cheryl and Joel's conversation weeks before he had hoped that Cheryl had decided to leave it well alone, but apparently not. Fear was worming its way into his blood, trickling through his veins, making him feel cold. A cornered animal, Brendan's first response was to go on the attack. The eyes he flashed at Cheryl made both her and Anne flinch.

"You did what?"

"I had to, okay?"

"You had to? You had to? Tell me Chez, what exactly gives you the right to continually interfere in my life like this? Why would you do this?"

Cheryl looked as though she was going to cry, but fear had made Brendan angry, and the anger was refusing to abate. Anne touched Cheryl's arm reassuringly.

"Brendan, I don't think -"

"Stay out of this Anne, it doesn't concern you. Come on sis, I'm dying to hear your justifications for this one."

"Ste is my friend," she said in a quiet voice.

"And what is he to me Chez?" Brendan yelled, feeling as though he would crack and break in two. The answer came in Walker's voice, the word "nothing" echoing around the club, inescapable, and to Brendan undeniably true.

"Actually Bren. I think he may still love you."

Brendan could hear the clinking of bottles in the distance as the bar staff filled shelves in the bar below. Thankfully the top floor had emptied, as Brendan in his current state was bound to scare away customers. Anne looked smug and triumphant, as if the words "I told you so" were on the tip of her tongue.

"He wants to see you," Cheryl continued, taking the seat next to Anne that Brendan had recently vacated and knocking back the remnants of his champagne. Brendan's mind was working overtime, too many questions whirring through it to process. The first one that occurred to him to say made him sound more vulnerable than he'd have liked.

"But... he's with someone else. You said it yourself. He's happy, and it's too late. That's what you said."

Cheryl and Anne exchanged glances, for once on the same page. Anne tiptoed around the bar up towards Brendan, who had shrunk into himself, arms clutched around his body and staring at the floor. Anne placed her tiny hands on his folded arms and ducked a little to seek out his eyes. Something that looked an awful lot like terror resided in them.

"Cheryl's seen him. Perhaps... isn't it possible that however happy Ste is now, that he'd be even happier with you?"

"When I told him Bren, his first thought was that something had happened to you, and he looked so relieved when I said you were okay. He wasn't angry, he wasn't scared. He said he wanted to see you, and I could see it. That I was wrong. That there might still be a chance."

Brendan looked from Anne to Cheryl, so desperate to believe them, desperate to believe in that chance that Cheryl was holding out to him.

"He wasn't scared?"

Cheryl smiled at her brother, knowing what he was thinking.

"No love."

"I'm scared," Brendan said softly, and Anne put her arms around him gently. He resisted for a moment, before uncrossing his own arms and holding her in return. He knew that this meant he was going to meet with Ste, a desire he had had to push to the back of his mind crept back to the front, devastating in its intensity. It was time to step out from the shadows, if that was possible. If it was possible, he would do it for Steven.


	17. Chapter 17

17.

The Olive Press was closed on Mondays, so when Cheryl and Anne arranged Brendan's meeting with Ste, it was arranged for the following Monday afternoon. Brendan guessed that Ste wanted to be on his own ground, because he had offered the restaurant as the place for the meeting too. Brendan felt as though this put him even further on to the back foot, but he wanted Ste to be comfortable, and he could hardly refuse such a seemingly innocuous request.

Brendan was nervous. The weekend had surpassed expectations at the club, and it had largely gone by in a blur. The Saturday farewell to the Loft event had been a huge success, with the door staff having to turn an unprecedented number of people away. Brendan had served a range of Hollyoaks residents who he recognised from the time before; some greeted him pleasantly enough, while others studied him apprehensively, as though he was going to snap and pull out a gun at any minute. Grudgingly he conceded that it was a good thing that Cheryl had spoken with Ste, as he was certain to have found out about his return from other quarters after that evening. Brendan hated admitting it, but he had spent much of Saturday half hoping, half fearing that Ste would attend the party. He caught glimpses of him everywhere; as he he stood from crouching by the fridges behind the bar, as he went past the bathroom mirror which reflected the insides of the club, as he skipped down the stairs to check on the other bar. Ste was everywhere, but of course when Brendan focused properly the shadows disappeared.

Stood in the square, restaurant in front of him, Brendan wondered whether it would actually have been better for everyone if they had bumped into each other accidentally, rather than for the pressure to all build to this one momentous day. For one thing, he wouldn't have spent most of the morning procrastinating about what to wear, or worrying that shaving off his moustache had been an error of judgement. Eventually, Anne arrived at the door. He had expected her to scold him for still being in his tracksuit bottoms, but instead she had led him back into the bedroom, picking out jeans and a fine knit burgundy grandad top he had just bought. When dressed, Brendan stood staring at his reflection for a long time. He tried to see himself through Ste's eyes, to see what he would see when they met. Eager not to resemble a zombie, Brendan had dutifully taken his sleeping pills the night before, so although he felt groggy, he certainly didn't look it. The ghostly pallor of his skin after his years in prison had faded slightly after exposure to daylight. Besides, he thought, Ste had always known him to be fair skinned. The fitness regime that Brendan followed meant that his shoulders and arms were more developed than they had once been, his waist tapered and there was not an ounce of fat on his stomach. Although he was in his forties, Brendan wasn't sure he looked it, which was surely to his credit. Almost unconsciously, he blushed, as he realised that he wanted Ste to fancy him, as though he were an insecure teenager with a schoolboy crush. He craved the look of desire that he used to inspire. Brendan cursed himself for having such thoughts, rearranged his hair a little and grabbed his car keys from the dresser.

The restaurant was exactly what Brendan imagined: small but perfectly formed. The thought of Ste running the place made his heart sing. It had always been Ste's dream to go back into the restaurant business, and the fact that he had achieved it dulled some of the guilt Brendan carried around with him. Tentatively, he pushed at the door, and finding it unlocked, slipped into the Olive Press.

It only took a few steps before Brendan was overwhelmed. The place smelt like Ste, felt like him, as though Ste had poured his very essence into the place. Brendan breathed in deeply, for once savouring the sense of time rolling back. Ste was stood behind the pass with a piece of paper in his hand, but when he made eye contact with Brendan the paper dropped to the floor; forgotten, meaningless. Ste made his way into the restaurant, not breaking their gaze at any point. He stopped in front of Brendan, who was frozen to the spot like a deer in the headlights. The moment felt as though it were happening in another dimension, time crystallised around them. Seemingly of its own volition, Ste's hand reached out and the tips of his fingers pressed lightly on Brendan's chest next to his heart. His erratic, overloaded heart. In a moment that felt as though it was playing straight out of a dream, Ste's hand pushed itself against him, the heat of his palm warming Brendan's skin at the contact.

"Brendan..." Ste whispered his name reverently, as if it contained hidden powers just to utter the syllables. Brendan breathed out heavily through his nose, resisting the urge to reach out in turn. Closer now, Brendan was able to study Ste's face. His eyes were glazed over, with something that looked an awful lot like desire. The hand that was planted on his chest crept up and stroked Brendan's cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. Ste's mouth was parted in an expression of concentration. Brendan's admittedly short span of control snapped in that moment. He pulled the back of Ste's head towards him, pressing their lips together with a barely suppressed moan. Ste's mouth was warm, his lips soft but dry, as though they had been buffed. It was easy to misremember things after such a long time, but not this. The pressure of Ste's hands on his neck and back, the desperate little pants that escaped into his mouth from Ste's throat, melting on his tongue like chocolate. The taste of summer; citrus and happiness. The spark, like electricity travelling through his body as their tongues met again and again in a hot and frantic mess. None of these details could be forgotten - they were burnt into Brendan's brain forever. No one else had ever made him feel like this; totally helpless in the face of their longing for each other. Ste arched his body into Brendan's, pressing their hips together urgently, so that Brendan could feel the delicate hip bones and the solid heat of Ste's groin against his own. Breathlessly, Brendan grabbed a handful of Ste's arse and lifted him slightly to increase the friction that was building, earning a louder, longer moan from Ste for his efforts. He felt himself being pulled backwards and Brendan engaged his brain long enough to comply, pushing Ste against the nearest wall of the restaurant, ignoring the scraping screeching complaints of the chairs that were unceremoniously forced out of the way. Brendan pushed against Ste rhymically, insistently, and Ste sucked and bit at Brendan's bottom lip desperately. Brendan held Ste's waist firmly in place, feeling his arousal increase as Ste's moans became more frequent and louder in volume. He wondered momentarily what it said about them, this urgent need that led to them rutting animalistically against the wall, dangerously near to climax without a single item of clothing being removed. He felt Ste tense against him, felt him groan Brendan's name into his mouth, and that was all it took to send Brendan over the edge too.

Ste leant his forehead into the curve of Brendan's collarbone, letting his breathing even out. Brendan hardly dared to move, didn't want to be the one to break the spell. The heat of Ste's body was comforting and familiar, the scent of his skin strong in his nostrils. Eventually Ste uncurled himself and released his hold on Brendan, pushing him away and ducking under Brendan's arm.

"Just going to clean up," Ste said, motioning to the bathroom without meeting Brendan's eyes.

"Take your time," Brendan said, uncharacteristic gentleness to his voice. He felt the loss of Ste's warmth keenly, and flinched at the guilty avoidance of eye contact. Despite his discomfort, Brendan sat down at the nearest table that hadn't been disturbed during their passion and waited, feeling that he could hardly follow Ste into the bathroom at this point. When Ste returned he sank down into the chair opposite Brendan. There was an awkward silence. Brendan couldn't decipher the curious look in Ste's eyes. Finally, Ste cleared his throat.

"Just so you know, I hadn't planned that or anything."

"It's okay Steven."

The utterance of his name on Brendan's lips had a visible effect on Ste, and he swallowed loudly in order to regain composure.

"It's not okay though. I haven't... I don't know what came over me. I have a boyfriend, right."

Brendan nodded slowly, the admission no surprise to him, but a punch in the gut to hear it from Ste's own mouth nevertheless. Ste watched him, and Brendan felt a flutter of nervous tension.

"You already knew that though, didn't you?"

"It doesn't matter Steven," Brendan shrugged, and instantly realised that had been the wrong thing to do and say. The movement was like a red rag to a bull, and Ste shot out of his chair, eyes blazing with anger. Or passion.

"Of course it matters Brendan! I don't go round doing things like this. I swore to myself that it was okay, that it was safe, that there was no way you could do this to me after all this time -"

Brendan leant forward, putting out a hand to stop Ste's rant.

"Wait a second, no way I could do what exactly?"

"Make me feel like this!" Ste screamed, voice breaking a little, his eyes shining. His hand was over his chest as though he was in physical pain. Perhaps he was.

"I was so sure it'd be fine to see you. I mean, I'm not angry with you anymore, I was, for a real long time, but then I got it. I reckon I understood why you did it, to let me live my life, and I have. My life is great, no drama, no having my heart ripped out on a regular basis. I thought it'd be safe. And then I saw you, and I just..."

Ste trailed off, collapsing back into his chair, looking exhausted. Brendan simply watched and listened, guilt once more ebbing and flowing through his veins. He shouldn't have come, it was selfish. Ste pulled the sleeves of his hooded top over his hands in a protective gesture. Silence descended once more.

To Brendan's surprise, Ste broke the silence.

"You look good," Ste murmured, flush spreading across his cheeks as he did so, the comment filling Brendan with unexpected warmth.

"So do you," he replied, slight smile on his lips. Ste gestured at his own mouth, and Brendan noticed with satisfaction that it was still pink with stubble rash, evidence of their earlier activities.

"No moustache?"

Brendan mimicked Ste's movements, tracing his fingers over his own mouth and chin.

"No, no moustache."

"It's different. Nice different."

"Thank you Steven."

Ste shuddered and met Brendan's unwavering gaze.

"No one's called me that in years. Not since you."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"Would you even be able to?" Ste asked with a forced laugh.

"If you asked me to, I would," Brendan replied, voice low and serious. He looked into Ste's eyes, into his soul, willing him to understand.

 _"I'll never feel any differently about you..."_

Ste looked away hastily, shook his head, giving no indication of Brendan's intended meaning being understood.

"Nah. It'd be well weird if you called me anything else."

Brendan nodded, and attempted to move the conversation on to firmer ground, ground that was less likely to shift from under him.

"This place Steven, it looks great."

Ste smiled a real smile then, and Brendan was reminded that his whole face and body radiated happiness, lighting up like a Christmas tree.

"Ta. You should visit when we're open, try some of the food. Still got an appetite on you?"

"Of course."

"Well, I'm doing a Milanese special at the minute that I know you'd love."

The unspoken implication of the words hung in the air between them - Ste had put dishes on the menu that would please Brendan. He _**wanted**_ him to taste the food.

"How long have you been open?"

"This is our second year. I was with the owner in his place in Chester, running myself into the ground trying to work there and keep the deli on. When he decided to open here he wanted to make me head chef, so I sold the deli and came here. Best thing I ever did. Got to design the kitchen myself and everything."

"That's... it's really something Steven."

"You always said I could do it. I thought about you, you know. On the opening night. Had jam sandwiches for tea. Ben thought I'd lost my mind."

Brendan's teeth clamped down at the mention of another man's name.

"Does he know about me? This Benjamin of yours?"

"Firstly right, his name's Benedict. Not that _anyone_ calls him that. And secondly, yeah, he knows. Knows bits of it anyway."

"Benedict? Posh lad is he?"

Ste frowned at the sneering tone of Brendan's voice.

"Don't start Brendan. Yeah, he was brought up well. Has a nice, normal functional family, so what? And he's not a 'lad', he's your age."

Brendan felt the pain of his questioning in his bones, but he couldn't resist picking at the scab, couldn't resist pulling at healing skin and ripping it apart afresh. Some of his anguish must have shown on his face, because Ste's expression softened, and he reached out to enclose Brendan's hand in his. They sat like this for a while, all the distance in the world between them, but holding hands across the table, as though this contact could close the gap in some way.

"Brendan... I meant what I said earlier. I've been happy. I'm happy. I really am."

 _"I just want the best for you Steven."_

Brendan felt rather than heard the echoes of another place and time, when Ste had given up his happily ever after for him. When he'd allowed himself to indulge in that shred of light that Ste had thrust into his life. When he'd let himself believe, just for a time, that being with him might have been the best thing for Ste after all.

"Then I'm happy for you Steven. Truly."

It took a moment for Brendan to realise that Ste was trying to dislodge his hand from Brendan's. He felt anxious at the idea, prematurely bereft, and clung on a little manically. He looked at Ste and found that he couldn't look away again, as though the pout of Ste's lips and the angles of his jaw were drugs that Brendan was hopelessly addicted to. There was pain crouching just out of his eyeline, ready to pounce when he was at his most vulnerable. Of course he was glad that Ste was happy. It was what he had hoped for, the sense that he had been right to make himself more miserable as a trade off for Ste getting the life that he deserved. But perhaps a part of Brendan had held out hope that, as Anne had suggested, Ste wouldn't be quite happy enough without him. That Brendan was the missing piece to Ste's puzzle. It was clear that their attraction was still strong, frighteningly so. It still had the power to wipe away reason and block out the rest of the world as if everything else was inconsequential.

And then there was the love. Thrumming through Brendan's fingertips, impossible to ignore. The words were like a peach pit lodged in his throat; he wanted to tell Ste that for him, nothing had changed, time had stood still. The only beautiful thing that Brendan had had to cling on to over the intervening years was this love. In fact, love seemed to be too mild a word for it, too mundane and commonplace. A word thrown around prolifically by the masses to describe all manner of affection. What Brendan felt was not simply affection. It had penetrated his damaged soul, it had taken root in his body and grown, blossoming into something glorious and terrifying and all consuming.

Whatever the proper name for it, the phrase "I love you" was the one that ran through Brendan's mind, ran across his tongue, rolled its way out into the warm, unfamiliar air of the restaurant, landing between their clasped hands into Ste's lap. Ste squeezed Brendan's resisting hand firmly, before managing to extricate himself from the hold. His eyes were shining again, and Brendan wondered if he was going to cry. Instead, Ste looked down at his lap, unwrapping those cherished words carefully, as though they would break without delicate handling. Brendan had an urge to peel his clothes from his body, leaving the discarded garments as if they were rind on the floor. To undress Ste in turn and enfold himself around the warm flesh with his own naked and willing limbs. To feel the heat of Ste's body as if it was his own.

"Brendan... I love you too."

Brendan blinked, wondering if he'd heard correctly. He moved to grab Ste's hands across the table once more, then thought better of it and instead moved from his chair to place himself next to Ste, leaning to kiss him.

"Steven..."

Brendan knew his longing was embarrassingly obvious, but he found that he didn't care. As he closed his eyes however, he felt fingers firmly halting the path of his mouth.

"Brendan, wait. Let me finish, okay?"

Brendan was uncomprehending, and he frowned, pulling a chair from behind him to sit on, now facing Ste. He didn't understand. Wasn't that love on Ste's face? Wasn't desire painted there clear for anyone to see? Ste shook his head a little, and let out a shaky breath.

"I love you. Of course I do. I'll always love you. I can't ever forget what we had, and I don't want to. But it can't mean anything more than that. We can't go back in time, right, much as you might want to. It's too late for us, now."

"So what then, Steven? Hmmm?"

Ste shrugged a little bit helplessly.

"We could be friends. I can be your friend. I'm a good friend, me."

Brendan smiled at that, despite his inner agony. Being 'friends' wasn't enough, could never be enough, not when Brendan wanted to possess Steven body and soul. Not when Brendan knew being friends would mean seeing him happy with another man, leaving him on the periphery.

And yet...

 _"You'll always be my problem..."_

Brendan had been here before. He had watched Ste with Doug, creating his deli and his family unit; the stable ordinary life that Ste had craved. And while it had been undoubtedly painful, Brendan had survived those months of being second best. He bided his time, was there when it mattered, and had finally won through, against the odds. Their need for each other had triumphed, and it had transpired that Brendan was more than willing to provide the security that Ste had wished for. Gratifyingly, rather than diminishing the passion in their relationship, it had actually increased it. Was it beyond the realms of possibility that Brendan could win over Steven again? By being a 'friend', being someone who Ste could rely on?

Brendan considered the alternative. Cutting himself from Ste's life once more, for all intents and purposes acting as strangers to one another. It might have been the better, more sane option, but Brendan had chosen to come back to Hollyoaks for a reason. He wasn't sure he was strong enough to cope with the loss of Ste again, so soon after being reunited. At least this way, there was a chance. And something was better than nothing at all.

So Brendan looked into Ste's beautiful, sincere, beloved eyes, and he traced the edge of Ste's cut glass jawline with the briefest of touches. Then he nodded.

"Okay, Steven. Let's do it your way. Friends it is."

* * *

 **A/N: This is absolutely not how I intended their first meeting to go, but somehow the scene ended up writing itself! Thank you to those who have stuck with the story so far. I can promise much more in the way of Brendan and Ste interacting now that the story has reached this point.**


	18. Chapter 18

18.

 _When Brendan walks into Mark's office he is holding a dog eared book. Mark looks at it curiously as Brendan sits down._

 _"What have you got there?" Mark asks. Brendan holds the book up against his chest, showcasing the front cover._

 _"What, this? Reading a bit of Oscar Wilde, doc."_

 _Mark tried to hide a smile, writes something down on his notepad._

 _"Seems appropriate."_

 _"I thought so. He wrote about his time in prison. Want to hear some?"_

 _Mark makes a motion for Brendan to continue, who clears his throat theatrically._

 _"All that we know who lie in gaol is that the wall is strong; and that each day is like a year, a year whose days are long."_

 _"Profound. Although hardly comparable with your own experience is it? Wasn't he sentenced to hard labour?"_

 _Brendan smiles his unhinged smile, and evil glint in his eye._

 _"No one likes a pedant doc."_

 _"Is that how you feel? Does time pass as slowly for you?"_

 _"Sometimes it drags even more than that."_

 _"And if you weren't 'lying in gaol', what would you be doing? In the outside world I mean?"_

 _Brendan makes a show of pondering the question, finger pressed to his chin._

 _"I'd be doing what anyone would be doing doc. What an odd question."_

 _" Which is what? According to Brendan Brady?"_

 _"Running my business. Spending time with family and friends. You know, the usual."_

 _They haven't been seeing each other long, so Brendan is still feeling his way, still trying to work out how to unnerve the doctor. Mark studies him from over his glasses for a moment._

 _"Family and friends... yes. We've talked about Cheryl in the past, but how about friends?"_

 _Brendan raises an eyebrow._

 _"Friends?'_

 _"Yes Brendan. You've just intimated you have them, said you would be spending time with them. So who are they?"_

 _Names pile up in Brendan's mind, an untidy stack of acquaintances. Foxy. Little Foxy. Walker. Brendan shudders at the image of that particular 'friend'. Who can he talk about, who is safe? Lynsey? No, too raw. He says Anne's name too quickly, without thinking. When he sits back, the hurt makes itself known. He hasn't seen Anne in years; classing her as a friend is presumptive at best. Nevertheless, the thought of her in all of her diminutive and feisty glory makes him soften, the glimpse of a smile on his face._

 _"Tell me about her."_

 _"She worked for - no,_ _ **with**_ _me and Chez at the club. Lives in America now. Had a little boy with Riley Costello."_

 _Mark squints as if in thought._

 _"Why does that name ring a bell?"_

 _"He was a footballer, apparently."_

 _"That's right. Hang on, wasn't he -"_

 _"Killed in cold blood? Sure. Not by me doc, before you ask."_

 _Mark does something uncharacteristic, pulling his phone from his trouser pocket and looking at it for a moment. Then he glances up at Brendan, trace of uncertainty on his face._

 _"Says here that he was killed by Simon Walker."_

 _Painful flashes of that day compete for Brendan's attention. The horror of the gun pointed at Steven. The disbelief as the shot rang out. The guilty relief of Steven being safe._

 ** _"_** **Would you really take a bullet for me?"**

 _Brendan closes his eyes, and it's as though he'd back there, confusion in Ste's voice so clear and palpable that he can almost reach out and touch it._

 _"Yeah. Walker was a bad apple. Hurt a lot of people."_

 _Mark raises an eyebrow, pausing in his note taking._

 _"He was also one of the people mentioned in your original confession."_

 _"Which I retracted doc, as you know. But I'll say this. Whoever_ _ **was**_ _responsible for the death of Simon Walker was doing the world a favour."_

 _"And would Anne agree with you about that?"_

 _Brendan isn't entirely certain about that. Retribution and revenge might have been king in the world he inhabited, but perhaps not for Anne. Nevertheless Brendan nods, finds that he wants Mark to believe that him and Anne would be on the same page._

 _"Yeah. I reckon so."_

 _He wonders how Anne is, whether she is happy. He imagines her in the California sunshine, tanned and laughing, surrounded by glamorous party goers and gym bunnies. He hopes this life he has conjured for her is true, that she is as carefree and loved as she should be._

 _"Has she ever visited?"_

 _A pointless question. Mark has access to Brendan's visitor records, and so he knows full well that only one name has ever appeared there. He turns the sarcasm on to answer._

 _"Bit difficult, what with the whole living across an ocean thing and all."_

 _"Mmmm. Any friends closer to home?"_

 _Brendan wonders if it is normal to consider stabbing someone with their own pen with the regularity he feels the urge to do this to Mark._

 _"What are you trying to say doc? That I'm a billy no mates?"_

 _"No Brendan, not at all -"_

 _"I haven't had much luck with friends doc. Bad things seem to happen around me."_

 _"That's unfortunate."_

 _"Not sure fortune has anything to do with it," Brendan sneers, and Mark falls silent. After a moment, Brendan picks up his book and flicks through it, before stopping at a particular page. He gives Mark a curious look, wondering how what he wants to say will be interpreted._

 _"Attachments make you weak doc. Best not to have any if you can avoid it. Want to know what else Wilde says?"_

 _"Go on."_

 _"Each man kills the thing he loves - some do it with a bitter look, some with a flattering word, the coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword."_

 _Mark stares at Brendan for what feels like a long time._

 _"And what do you interpret that to mean?"_

 _"It's obvious. With all the best intentions in the world, you can't fail to hurt the ones you care about."_

 _"That statement is straight out of the mouth of a depressive, Brendan."_

 _"If the cap fits..."_

 _"So which do you most identify with then? The brave man? Or the coward?"_

 _Brendan laughs, loudly, inappropriately._

 _"That doc, remains to be seen."_

* * *

The lights were on in the club, giving the place an unnaturally bright glare. Cheryl sat at the bar, poring over the plans for the renovation. A door slammed below, and she heard tuneless whistling drifting towards her from the stairwell. When Brendan appeared on the landing, he gave Cheryl a wink and pulled up a chair. He put a takeout coffee container down next to her.

"You're in a good mood..."

Brendan removed the lid from his own coffee and blew on the contents of the cup noisily, steam curling and twisting as his breath disturbed its natural path.

"Why shouldn't I be? This is the first day of the rest of my life. Brendan Brady is back, and it feels good."

Cheryl swept her curled hair to one side and looked at Brendan suspiciously.

"Where did you get the coffee from?"

Brendan avoided her eyeline, looking down into his cup as though something fascinating resided there.

"Steven."

A smile spread across Cheryl's face as she pulled the top from her own cup.

"Ah-ha. That explains it."

"He knows how I like my coffee Chez, that's all."

"I'll bet he does," Cheryl smirked, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

"Get your mind out of the gutter. Just friends remember?"

Right on cue, the door of the balcony was thrown open, and in walked Ste holding two brown paper packages.

"Brendan, I didn't know if you wanted any sauce did I, so I've stuck some sachets in with it. Oh, hi Chez."

"Morning love. This is a nice surprise."

Ste looked a little awkward and gestured at Brendan, who seemed content to let him struggle.

"Yeah, well Brendan said you guys have a busy day with the club today, so I thought I'd bring you both breakfast."

"Home delivery from the head chef himself? We are honoured."

A blush spread across Ste's cheeks, and out of the corner of her eye Cheryl saw Brendan cock his head a little, as though he was trying to work something out.

"It's no trouble, I'm at the restaurant anyway aren't I?"

Brendan took the packages from Ste's grasp gently.

"Thank you Steven. I owe you."

"Don't be daft. Not going to charge you for a couple of sandwiches."

"No. I meant for looking after me and Cheryl."

A weighted silence descended, and Cheryl wondered what she was missing. After a beat Brendan grabbed his keys from the counter.

"I have to run. Got to go and meet Anne to look at bathroom tiles. Try to contain your excitement. See you later."

Cheryl and Ste both watched Brendan leave, paper bag full of breakfast clenched between his teeth, coffee and keys taking up both hands.

"I'd best be off too," Ste said, gesturing towards the door.

"Is everything okay love?"

"Yeah course, just got to finish lunch prep haven't I."

"I meant with you and Brendan."

"I don't get you."

Cheryl sighed and began to unwrap her sandwich that Ste had so carefully packaged. One might even use the word lovingly.

"It's just that... just then, it felt like something was going on between you."

"It isn't," Ste said quickly. Too quickly for Cheryl's liking.

"Really? Because the atmosphere in here just now suggested otherwise."

Ste considered the floor for a moment, taking a deep breath as he did so. He perched on the chair facing Cheryl and looked her in the eyes for the first time as she lifted her coffee to her lips.

"Right Cheryl, you've got to promise to keep this to yourself. Me and Brendan, well... we, you know..."

Coffee was promptly spluttered across the bar, and Cheryl found herself choking.

"Oh my god, a bit of warning before the next bombshell babe!"

"Look, it's not that big a deal -"

"It's not that big a deal? You slept with our Brendan?!"

Ste shook his head violently.

"No, I didn't Chez, we didn't... we were at the restaurant weren't we, so we didn't go the whole way. We just -"

"Please, spare me the gory details," Cheryl said, pulling a face, thinking about Brendan's version of events and wondering just how much he omitted when relaying the meeting to herself and Anne. Ste put his head in his hands.

"It was a mistake Chez. I saw him and I just... it made me remember everything. How I'd never wanted anyone as much as I wanted him. How I'd never loved anyone as much. And I couldn't not reach out. I couldn't not kiss him."

Cheryl felt her eyes well up at the raw emotion in Ste's voice.

"Oh, love. But if that's how you feel..."

"Thing is Chez, feeling like that, it isn't good. Being that out of control, it's wrong. When we were first together, all them years ago, I said to Amy that I wanted to kiss him, but that I wanted to kill him too. Good way of summing it up, that is."

Cheryl nodded. She understood in a way. Loving Brendan in any way was not easy.

"What about Ben?"

Guilt filtered over Ste's features like a cloud across the sun.

"I'm not going to tell him. I thought about it, right, and I don't like the idea of the secret. But it'd hurt him and he doesn't deserve it. I don't intend to do it again anyway."

"And Brendan?"

"Well he agreed to being friends didn't he, that it'd be best for everyone, so..."

"You don't think he'll tell Ben?"

Ste frowned as though the thought hadn't even occurred to him.

"Why would he do that?"

"If he thought there was a chance that it would split you up he might -"

"If he did that Chez, he knows it would be over. I'd never be able to forgive him."

Cheryl let out an exasperated moan and bit into her sandwich. She wasn't convinced by Ste's spiel, and she knew that if she wasn't, then Brendan definitely wouldn't be.

"You're not mad are you Chez?" Ste asked in a small voice, fiddling with the discarded lid from Cheryl's coffee cup that lay on the bar. Cheryl raised an eyebrow at her old friend, swallowing a mouthful and considering her feelings. Deep down, Cheryl still held on to the romantic notion of Brendan and Ste working things out, heading into the sunset together. However, the pragmatic side of her knew it was a risk that Ste was likely to be unwilling to take, that love was not always the be all and end all. She knew that Ste's life was settled, and that Brendan was a metaphorical spanner in the works. And yet, she still hoped...

"No love, I'm not mad. But maybe I wasn't clear the other night. Emotionally, Brendan isn't in the best of places. Truth be told, I'm worried about him. He needs support, not mixed messages."

"I get that Chez, I do. It was a one time thing. I want to be here, for you both. I want him in my life."

"I do trust you hun. Just... please don't hurt him."

Ste laughed an unnaturally loud laugh.

"Sounds strange it being that way round. Is he really not doing good?"

Cheryl glanced around to check they were still alone.

"Not really babe. He's seeing a therapist but I'm not sure that's really helping. I mean, we've got the contractor in this afternoon, wanting to start work, and Brendan still hasn't even picked a name for the place. He just keeps disappearing to look at decorations with Mitzeee."

Ste smiled at that.

"Jealous?"

"What, of little miss Instagram? Absolutely not."

"It's good though isn't it? That she's here. For Brendan I mean."

"I suppose so," Cheryl said grudgingly, and Ste honked out a laugh again, standing to give Cheryl a one armed hug.

"We'll help him. He'll be alright you know. He's strong remember. Brave."

"Don't let Ben hear you talking like that."

Ste's face clouded a little again. He was clearly grappling with his emotions, trying to do what was right by everyone. Cheryl felt a touch of guilt for teasing him. As Ste headed for the door, he turned on his heel.

"Here, Chez. Do you still want to meet Ben?"

Cheryl was conflicted. Would Brendan view it as a betrayal to meet the new man? Ste could clearly sense her turmoil.

"Look, no pressure. Ben's coming into the restaurant tonight. If you fancy some pizza on me, pop in. If not, no harm done."

"Okay love. Thanks."

Ste smiled warmly, blowing a kiss in Cheryl's direction and disappearing through the balcony exit. She sighed. It wasn't even midday yet and she already felt exhausted. Sipping at her now lukewarm coffee, Cheryl turned back to the plans for the club, eyes drawn to the space where the name should be. When Brendan returned from his shopping trip, he would make a decision, whether he liked it or not, Cheryl decided.

* * *

It was late, so late that some would classify it as early. The moon was full, tinged with orange, and was shining its light through a gap in Brendan's curtains. He lay with his face turned from the window, willing sleep to return. The beginnings of a whiskey hangover were hovering in the corners of his eyes, the whisper of a headache waiting in the wings.

It had been a busy day. Anne had dragged him around numerous showrooms looking at various bathroom installations, which he stubbornly declared a completely useless exercise. Brendan persuaded Anne that actually the best research they could do would be to check out some bars in Chester, to see the types of things that were popular. Of course, research descended into a lunchtime bar crawl, which resulted in Brendan being late for his important meeting with the contractor, not to mention being obnoxiously drunk, much to Cheryl's patent horror. She had yelled at him afterwards, a thankless task because Brendan wasn't paying attention. Cheryl finally tried to provoke a reaction by mentioning that she was going to have dinner with Ste and his boyfriend for the evening, and at that he had stormed out, irrational rage bubbling up through his pores. His only answer in this situation? Drinks at the Dog. Brendan took up residence at the end of the bar, growling at anyone who attempted to initiate conversation.

Later, he had stumbled across the village to the Olive Press. Pressing his hands against the steamed up windows, he garnered some odd glances from the patrons on the inside. Brendan squinted into the warm and inviting space, feeling disconsolate and excluded. They were there, towards the back of the restaurant, and Cheryl was laughing, a genuine hearty laugh, slice of half eaten pizza in hand. Brendan was however more interested in the man he didn't recognise. He too was smiling; clearly Ste was the comedian in residence. To his horror the look on the man's face was one of adoration, of total ease in Ste's company. Handsome too, Brendan bitterly noted.

It was at that moment that Cheryl's face dropped as she spotted Brendan's face at the window. He stumbled back a little, as a hurried conversation began at the table. Seconds later the door of the restaurant opened, Ste coming through it while pulling his jacket on hastily.

"Brendan, what are you doing?"

Brendan gestured to the sky, staggering backwards as he did so.

"Just taking a little moonlit stroll. Want to join me?" he slurred, and Ste rolled his eyes, hugging himself against the chill of the evening.

"Cheryl said you might be drunk."

"What does she know? Always interfering, sticking her nose in."

"Yeah, well that's what people who care do. Come on, I said I'd take you home."

"Don't put yourself out on my account, Steven," Brendan said, leaning in towards Ste unsteadily.

"Brendan, don't be a dick, okay?" Ste grabbed hold of Brendan's arm and linked it with his tightly; Brendan grumbled incomprehensibly but didn't put up any further resistance, "god, you stink of whiskey, you been bathing in it?"

Brendan's foot caught on the curb, and he ended up leaning further into Ste for support.

"You used to like the smell of whiskey," Brendan murmured, voice heavy with suggestive undertones. A particularly potent memory fought its way through the drunken haze to the surface. Ste being thrown on to the club's office table, naked, upending a glass of whiskey in the process. Brendan licking Ste's flank and up the side of his body where the spirit had spilt. Then Brendan, who had still been fully clad in suit trousers and shirt, had grabbed the open bottle from the sideboard, poured alcohol onto Ste's stomach, watching it spill over his belly button with a ravenous expression in his eyes, tracing his tongue over the droplets that had collected on heated skin. He'd drank from the bottle neck then, pulling Ste up so that his naked legs were wrapped around Brendan's clothed ones. Brendan had kissed him, pouring whiskey from his own mouth into Ste's, stroking between Ste's legs as he did so, eliciting a low moan that seemed to sound in both of their throats.

On recalling the memory, Brendan felt the moan echo through time, and Ste glanced at him warily. Brendan wanted to ask whether Ste remembered that occasion too, but before he could Ste squeezed his arm a little, and said, "things change," in a tone that Brendan hoped was regretful.

Navigating their way to the flats took longer than it normally would have done, on account of Brendan's poor coordination, but on reaching the door, Ste released him gently, instantly leaving Brendan mourning the body contact, the warmth that Ste had transmitted to him.

"Do you want to come up?" Brendan asked, searching through his pockets clumsily for his keys, maintaining eye contact with Ste, who had folded his arms back around himself as though he was missing the warmth the contact had afforded too.

"Brendan, I've got to get back to my restaurant, and you need to sleep it off."

"Why'd you bother coming here then?" Brendan spat angrily, finally retrieving his keys and promptly dropping them. Ste leant down and picked them up, placing them in Brendan's outstretched hand carefully.

"Because friends don't let other friends pass out on street corners and freeze to death, that's why," Ste said gently. For some reason Brendan found himself having to fight back tears.

"Come by the Press in the morning, okay? I'll have a coffee ready for you, a large one, alright?"

As Ste walked down the drive, Brendan watched his retreating figure until he was out of sight. At some point he must have let himself into the flat and undressed before passing out on the bed, naked but otherwise unscathed. When Brendan woke it was past three o clock, and he found himself unable to switch his mind back off. Too many fragile, razor sharp memories to dodge and weave through. What Brendan settled on, finally, was whiskey...

* * *

 _When he enters the office and sees the whiskey bottle in plain sight, Brendan thinks this must be another test set up to fuck with his mind. Even more so when Mark steps towards the door and locks it very quietly so that the mechanism barely clicks. Brendan remains standing, unable to sit, irrational terror flooding his bones._

 _"Don't panic Brendan," Mark says, taking his seat behind his desk calmly. He must be able to smell the fear, Brendan thinks. He makes a conscious effort to breathe slowly, soothingly. Oddities in his daily routine have the power to do this to him, now. Years of interminable imprisonment leads to certain expectations, certain habits. Habits are notoriously hard to break. As if to prove this, Brendan lowers himself into his usual seat on the sofa, staring at the whiskey all the while. He realises part of the fear is that it is a hallucination, a mirage. One blink, and it'll be as though it never was. This sort of thing has happened to Brendan before, the yearnt for object appearing, as though strength of will alone was enough to conjure things out of thin air. The disappointment of reality after such visions can be crushing._

 _Brendan is distracted by the peal of glass against glass, and he chances a look away from the bottle to see Mark holding two glasses in his hands, cut crystal, polished and full of promise._

 _"I thought we might celebrate your parole board. I remember you saying that whiskey was your drink?"_

 _Brendan nods wordlessly, feeling as if he has been put into a trance. Much of his life feels surreal, but there is a peculiar brand of absurdity to this situation that makes him feel like laughing out loud. Or screaming. There is little time to consider this however, as Mark holds out one of the beautiful glasses filled with amber liquid for Brendan to take. It is not often that Brendan is speechless. Sometimes he chooses not to speak, but this is very much out of his control. He takes the glass and notices his hand has a slight tremor._

 _"When was the last time you had a drink?" Mark asks, an indulgent smile on his face._

 _Brendan thinks about throwing the contents of the glass into Mark's face, imagines for a moment that the liquid is acid and can almost hear the yells of agony the action would cause. He swills the drink around the glass, a gentle film forming, clinging to the sides of the crystal. When was the last time? He tries not to think of that final day, but it filters through the barriers he has put up anyway. The memory of freedom is insidious. Ste's tears as Brendan revealed the truth about Seamus, his face still marked with the cuts and bruises put there by Brendan's fists. The conviction on Ste's face when he promised their happy ever after. The kiss that was so familiar, so brief, as though it was simply one of many, because there was a lifetime of passion and adoration ahead of them for more. And then his father... yes, there had been whiskey that day. A decent one, because Brendan didn't drink any old rubbish. He sniffs at the glass in his hands and frowns a little. It is a blend, not a particular favourite of his, but beggars can't be choosers._

 _"Been a while doc," Brendan says quietly. Mark repositions himself in the armchair nearest to Brendan's spot on the sofa and holds his glass up to toast._

 _"Cheers - to freedom," Mark says, clinking the bottom of the two glasses together._

 _"Slainte," Brendan mutters, sipping the liquid gingerly. There are undertones of peat that Brendan has never been fond of. The faint scent of ferns, of the wet ground of the heath. He is forcibly reminded of the damp smell of neglect from his nana's holiday home, and a shudder rips through him._

 _"So doc, you make a habit of getting your patients drunk?" Brendan asks, primarily to steer his mind away from where it had been heading. There is an intensity to Mark's gaze that Brendan recognises, and it dawns on him that the thing they have been dancing around for weeks is going to happen today, in this room. Brendan is almost disappointed by the banality of it. Seduction by alcohol is so pedestrian._

 _"No. It's not something I've ever done before."_

 _Brendan snorts and holds out his glass for it to be filled. He feels he needs it, and it strikes him afresh how quickly habits can reassert themselves. He retrieves a piece of paper from his back pocket and unfolds it onto the table. Mark watches the actions without comment. Once he's done, Brendan knocks the second whiskey back in one go, wincing at the unfamiliar taste._

 _"I suspect I won't be needing control on this occasion doc," Brendan growls, aggressive and seductive in equal measure. He puts his glass down, and leaning over Mark, goes in for the kill._

* * *

Brendan closed his eyes against the memory, but it continued to play out behind his eyelids anyway. The reality was rarely as spectacular as the fantasy. It hadn't seemed like such a bad idea at the time, and it had certainly scratched an itch. But the lack of any real feeling, at least on his part, meant that there was a certain amount of manufactured passion that couldn't be glossed over or disguised as the real thing. The only draw for Brendan was the elicitness of it - he knew what Mark was doing was much more risky for the doctor than it was for him. Despite its wrongness, despite the sense that with freedom ever closer there was no need to settle, Brendan continued to screw Mark, and Mark continued to act as though Brendan could screw his way out of therapy, which was clearly untrue.

After that first time, Brendan had gone back to his cell and found himself thinking about Lynsey. He was reminded of trying to create a relationship with her when he had had the absurd notion that it would help create a new family for his son. The logic of that particular set of actions was long lost to time but he found himself incredibly thankful that Lynsey had pushed him away so definitively, whilst never lacking her usual kindness and understanding.

The headache was moving in, like clouds gathering over the sea. Already angry with himself for going to the Olive Press in a state, Brendan lay there, nauseous and in pain and desperately lonely. As the first sounds of birdsong filtered through his window, Brendan once more wished that Lynsey was still there with them.

The snow globe nightmare flashed before his eyes again, causing him to screw them up in agony. It was a particularly unpleasant recurring nightmare, especially when he had realised that the anxieties it represented stemmed from Lynsey. Brendan's greatest fear was being unable to save his loved ones, that they could perish and he would be able to do nothing to save them. In more recent occurrences the hooded executioner had revealed his face. Sometimes it was Walker, sometimes Seamus. Sometimes - most frighteningly - it was Brendan himself.

 **A/N: The poem Brendan references here is "The Ballad of Reading Gaol" by Oscar Wilde. Thank you again to those people reviewing this story - it is lovely to read that you are enjoying it and definitely spurs the writing process on. And other readers, thank you for continuing to read too! I suspect that my 30 chapter estimate was a little ambitious, as I'm not even halfway through yet. The chapter following this one is a beast - the reopening of the club...**


	19. Chapter 19

19.

In the back of his mind, Brendan was sure he could hear something; a noise that was calling him out of his half sleeping state. Groggily, he reached up to the bedside table to retrieve his vibrating phone, the cause of the offending racket. It was a message from Joel.

 _"Great night last night - you buzzing?"_

Brendan rubbed his eyes and squinted at the time before replying.

 _"You're up early."_

Brendan hoped the terse tone would be obvious and as such discourage Joel from further communications. His phone buzzed obnoxiously once more. Obviously not.

 _"I haven't been to bed yet - just finished up with Chez and Mitzeee. Don't worry - I locked up!"_

Joel had followed this with one of those unforgivable smiling faces people insisted on punctuating their messages with now. Brendan groaned and threw his head back into the pillow. That meant that Cheryl and Anne would probably be out of action for the rest of the day, leaving the clean up operation largely to him. The opening night for Nolans had certainly been a lively event, and Brendan knew there would be more than just dirty glasses to square away...

* * *

Cheryl staggered into her hotel, scrambling in her bag for her keycard. That last cocktail Joel had made for her had definitely been a bad idea. Stepping into the lift proved to be more problematic than it should have been, and when she caught sight of her reflection in the polished glass Cheryl cringed at her wild hair and smudged eyeliner. Holding her keycard to the door, she let herself in as quietly as her current state allowed, hearing the soft sounds of Nate snoring coming from the bed. Instead of joining him straight away, she headed to the bathroom to wash her face. Despite the club's opening night being a huge success, Cheryl felt a pool of anxiety roiling in the pit of her stomach now that she was alone with her thoughts. She wasn't sure how to reconcile some of the things she had witnessed, and found herself desperately trying to block it all out, hence the drinking with Mitzeee and Joel until the crack of dawn. As she wiped the night's madness from her face, Cheryl couldn't help but drunkenly over analyse the previous day's events. Was there anything she could have done differently?

* * *

Nolans is a hive of activity, people everywhere. Cheryl puts the phone down on the bar and rubs her face with her hands tiredly. One more problem they could do without.

"Everything okay Chez?"

Ste is holding out a mug of tea and a plate with a bagel on it. She looks up into Ste's worried face and silently berates her brother for being the reason that worry now seems to rule over all of their lives. She takes the offerings gratefully and motions for Ste to join her on the nearest sofa.

"Don't get crumbs on that sofa!" Brendan calls impatiently, as he emerges from the office only to disappear down the stairs without stopping.

"He alright?" Ste asks, gesturing towards the stairs as Cheryl bites into the bagel. She realises she hasn't eaten anything all day in the rush of it all.

"He's stressed. Wants things to be perfect."

"They will be," Ste says firmly.

"Where do you want these Cheryl?" Joel asks, appearing from the cellar with a crate of champagne. Cheryl hastily swallows and points at the back of the bar.

"In the fridges back there. Thanks love."

"Got Cheryl to sit down did you Ste? Better man than I am," Nate says cheerfully, heading up the stairs and planting a kiss on Cheryl's cheek.

"Reckon she needs to take it a bit easier, me. She'll never make it through the night otherwise," Ste says, concern showing on his face. Nate raises his eyebrows at Cheryl, who avoids his glance, instead picking up her mug and taking a long gulp.

"I'm in agreement, but of course she doesn't listen to me."

"I haven't got time to take it easier. There's so much still to do, and you know we're down on staff."

"Yes, on that note, I'm headed to the cash and carry. Brendan thinks you might need another box of vodka."

Cheryl notices the keys in Nate's hand and Ste frowns.

"I was down in the cellar before, there's plenty of vodka."

Nate smiles wryly and bends to kiss Cheryl on the mouth this time, before turning towards the exit.

"Nevertheless, best not to argue with the boss. Besides, it's an excuse to get out of the way for a while. See you later."

Ste and Cheryl both wave, and once he's out of sight Cheryl sighs loudly.

"Poor Nate. He got here yesterday expecting a reunion with his wife and a big party. Instead he's relegated to odd jobs man and I haven't had a minute for him."

"He'll understand Chez. So you still short staffed?"

"Yeah. I don't dare tell Brendan, but a third staff member has come down with food poisoning. Just had another call."

"Shit. Coincidence?"

Cheryl shifts uncomfortably.

"No. I convinced Bren to take everyone out last night, team building exercise, you know? All the staff that've called in had the chicken. Bad move apparently."

"Where did you go?" Ste asks, horror evident in his tone.

"That Chinese off the high street."

"Well I could've told you not to go there," Ste says, scrunching his face up in distaste.

"Should've brought them to yours," Cheryl groans, putting her head back into her hands. Ste glances around the bar, watching Joel diligently stacking shelves.

"Joel's helping though right?" Ste asks. Cheryl looks up and smiles briefly.

"Yeah, bless him."

"Well... I could help too Chez. If you want me to."

Cheryl simultaneously feels warmth for Ste's selflessness and guilt for moaning to him. At that moment Brendan reappears at the top of the stairs, supplying Cheryl with a death stare.

"Comfortable there Chez?"

Cheryl gestures helplessly at the plate and mug in front of her.

"I was just -"

"Hey, don't let me spoil the fun," Brendan says as he strides back to the office, sarcasm rolling off him in waves. Ste rolls his eyes at Cheryl reassuringly, and she pats his knee affectionately.

"Thanks for offering babe, but do you really want to work with that? Besides, you're supposed to be our guest tonight."

"I don't mind, honestly. Not like I haven't got the experience is it?"

"Yeah, but that was a long time ago."

"You're right, yeah, but you never forget do you. It's like... well, it's like riding a bike isn't it?"

Ste grins and stands up as though to put an end to the discussion.

"Here, where are the uniforms?"

"In the office. Let me get one for you love, I wouldn't go near our Bren at the minute if I were you."

Waving her off, Ste heads for the familiar office door.

"No worries. I can handle him."

Cheryl watches him leave, butterflies fluttering in her gut.

"Yeah, that's what I'm worried about," Cheryl mutters to herself. She sits pensively for a while, before dragging her tired body up from the sofa. Time to get back to work.

* * *

Brendan doesn't understand. Can't really comprehend Steven's presence in his office, uninvited. Yet here he is, ignoring Brendan and rifling through the cardboard box full of staff t shirts that is balanced on the sofa. He presses his fingers into the bridge of his nose.

"Steven, if I asked you what you're doing, would I regret it?"

Ste, having checked a label, begins pulling the wrapping from one of the shirts, abandoning plastic on the floor haphazardly. Brendan takes a deep breath.

"Ain't it obvious?" Ste asks, holding the t shirt up to himself.

"Perhaps it is, but humour me anyway."

"Going to be working for you tonight aren't I. Provided one of these fits."

Brendan frowns, and approaches Ste from behind his standing desk.

"Working... for me?"

The tension in the room rises unmistakably. Ste stares into Brendan, who feels that he is somehow missing something. No time to ponder that thought, as almost defiantly, Ste shucks off his polo shirt, and waits for a moment before pulling the Nolans t shirt over his head. Brendan's mouth goes dry, and he feels inexplicably hot. He pulls at his collar uncomfortably, because Ste has not broken eye contact, and there is still that strange intensity to his gaze.

"Do you think it fits alright?" Ste asks quietly, smoothing his hands down the front of the top as he does. The past pours into the room. It's thirteen years ago, and Brendan is being besieged by a boy whose very existence seems to be for the purpose of testing him. The boy in his tight black t shirt, biting his lip slyly, irresistibly, practically begging Brendan to reach out and touch him. How many times had he been cornered in this very room? The thought makes him dizzy, unsteady on his feet. Brendan blinks and reaches for the sideboard next to him to retain his balance.

"Brendan?" Ste says, and there is an edge of worry, of uncertainty to his voice. He looks as though he is about to reach out, but Brendan puts out a hand to stop him.

"It's fine Steven - I'm fine... it's fine."

"So you're okay with me working tonight?"

Brendan tries to smile, but his face somehow won't allow it. He wonders if it's too early for a drink.

"Course. Fine. Just like old times, eh?" he says, false levity to his tone. Nothing could possibly be like 'old times'. He wishes Ste would stop looking at him, staring at him as if he expects something from him.

"Well... I'm going to go get stuck in then," Ste returns eventually, awkwardly, and gestures towards the open office door. Brendan imagines slamming it closed, pressing Steven's lithe, pliant body into it, pulling off that offensive t shirt and applying his mouth to those familiar sweet spots on his body. Instead of acting on this impulse, Brendan nods, grunts, and turns back to his desk. When he has returned to his original position, Ste is no longer in the room. Echoes of laughter sound in his ear, and Walker's voice whispers "pathetic" over and over again. Brendan reaches for the whiskey.

* * *

The club is filling up. Cheryl realises that Ste is right - it is indeed like riding a bike. Orders are coming thick and fast, but adrenaline kicks in and Cheryl juggles customers effortlessly, as though it had always been her life's work. Joel, Ste and Brendan are all behind the bar too, and the ease with which they work together is almost disconcerting. Joel and Ste are having a tremendous time, Joel tossing bottles into the air and letting Ste catch them, putting on quite the show for the gathered crowd. They're both laughing, and Cheryl finds that their joy is contagious. Even Brendan looks more relaxed than he has been in weeks, and Cheryl is sure that at times she catches his mouth quirking upwards at the bar staff's antics. She remembers this Brendan from the time before, realises that he is still made for this, giving out instructions effortlessly, handing over change with a wink. When on form, her brother is a master of his trade.

Cheryl breathes more easily. Everything is going well. She decides that, even if it seems as though Brendan and Ste appear to be shuffling past each other with light touches to the hips more often than the rest of the staff, it must surely be a coincidence. And then she sees him. She has to squint at first, trying to get a good view through the dancing masses, but it _is_ him. He's making his way through the crowd, and Cheryl grabs at Brendan's jacket sleeve, dragging him from behind the bar into the alcove behind it. Brendan's eyes widen but Cheryl does not give him time to express his outrage.

"What the hell is your therapist doing here?" Cheryl yells to be heard over the music, scowl on her perfectly made up face. Brendan shrugs infuriatingly.

"I invited him. What's the problem?"

Over the years Cheryl has lost count of the times she has wanted to smack her brother. This is yet another to add to the list.

"The problem? He's your doctor Brendan. Your relationship is _supposed_ to be professional."

"What are you implying Chez?"

Cheryl knows what she's implying, because the niggling doubt in the back of her mind is suddenly very vocal.

"Is something going on between you?" Cheryl has been frightened to ask that question since her visit with Brendan, but it now seems impossible not to, as the words trip over themselves in eagerness to escape her mouth. Now instead she is frightened of the answer, frightened of Brendan, because his shoulders have tensed and his eyes have hardened.

"I haven't got time for this," he growls, pushing past her aggressively. Cheryl looks back at the bar, watches Doctor Phillips leaning over the counter, embroiled in a smiling conversation with Ste. She feels a sense of indignant anger bubbling up to the surface. If Brendan won't give her a straight answer, she knows one other person who could.

* * *

There is something happening. It has been coming on for an hour or two, since Cheryl cornered him about Mark. Brendan tries to swallow it down, but like rising nausea, it is only possible to fight it for so long. He watches Cheryl, Joel and Ste working together, laughing and joking with customers, and he finds he cannot move. He tries to shake his head, to dislodge the encroaching shadows, to deposit himself back down in the present, but it is like driving with the brakes on, and his head barely twitches. Anne appears at his elbow. He thinks she is asking if he is alright, but it's as though he is underwater and all he can see is her mouth moving in slow motion, no sound breaking through. Brendan tries to smiles, to nod, to reassure, but he's uncertain of how successful he is. He moves away, pushes his way through the wall of happy party goers, feeling his panic rising, his heart rate increasing. Brendan catches Ste's eye; sees the smile freeze on his face. Dizziness threatens to make him stumble, and he lurches towards one of the bathrooms, leaning over the hand basin, watching his reflection laugh at him in the mirror, though he is pretty certain he cannot move his mouth. Why can't he catch his breath? The noise from the club echoes through his head at an almost unbearable pitch. And then, as if by magic, the sounds mute. Brendan looks towards the door he had left open in haste. It is now shut, Ste is sliding the lock into place swiftly, turning anxious eyes towards Brendan. He thinks Ste is talking to him, but he can only hear the panicked flutter of his own heart. Cold hands placed over his cause him to start, to flinch, but Ste holds on tightly, catching Brendan's reflection in the mirror. Brendan notices then that his eyes have the look of a wild animal, barely human, and he thinks he may faint. But Ste is still looking at him, looking into him, as though he isn't completely repelled. Ste's mouth moves rhythmically, as though he is repeating something. The words start to move into focus and Brendan realises that Ste is telling him to breathe, over and over again. As if on cue, Brendan becomes aware that his lungs feel as though they're on fire, and he takes in a mouthful of air which eases the pain a little.

Gradually he is able to breathe more deeply, more steadily, and all the while Ste holds his gaze in the mirror, stroking circles on Brendan's tense, hunched back, telling him to breathe. The sound of his heart beat has receded slightly, and he feels his pulse rate returning to normal. He realises with horror that he is trembling.

"That's it Brendan. Just breathe."

In through the nose, out through the mouth. Again. And again. Once more with feeling. Ste hasn't looked away from him the whole time, and Brendan realises how wide the other man's eyes are. He looks scared.

"It's okay Steven," Brendan manages to say, although his voice sounds peculiar, echoing, as though it is travelling from another room. The gentle hand on Brendan's back continues to circle, although more slowly now. Brendan feels heat spreading through his body at the contact as he comes back to himself. Letting go of the sink basin slowly, he straightens himself up, gratified that he doesn't feel like he is going to fall over, and turns to face Ste. In the brief second in which eye contact was broken, the expression on Ste's face has changed. His eyes are still wide, but it's no longer fear that Brendan reads there.

Brendan doesn't have long to read what _is_ there, because within an instant his arms are full of Steven, who launches himself so violently against Brendan that they slam into the freshly tiled wall behind them. Brendan lets out a growl of discomfort, but is quickly distracted from the pain by the mouth on his. He is breathless again, but this time he doesn't mind. Ste's mouth on his is insistent and aggressive, teeth clash and tongues taste, as Ste pushes himself on to Brendan with urgency. Brendan tastes blood as Ste nips at his lip, and he grabs at the man's waist, lifting him onto the sink counter and knocking soap and hand lotion to the floor in the process with a clatter. Ste's mouth has moved to his neck. Brendan lets out a loud moan at Ste sucking and biting his way down to Brendan's collar, leaving a wet trail across the skin and causing an outbreak of goosebumps. Brendan tips his head back to allow Ste easier access, and can't help but moan again as the bites are punctuated with the practised movements of hands at Brendan's belt buckle, undoing it and his suit trouser buttons as swiftly as possible. Brendan catches Ste's mouth into another desperate open mouthed kiss, feeling hands pushing his trousers and underwear down his legs roughly. The same hands grab on to his arse and pull him closer, and Brendan finds himself gasping into Ste's mouth as his exposed cock rubs on the crotch of Ste's jeans.

"Fuck me, Brendan," Ste whispers breathlessly, grabbing Brendan's dick as he does so, his hand moving erratically. Brendan cannot think, cannot process what is happening when Ste's hands are on him.

"Please," Ste says, longing evident in his voice. With that plea Brendan hurriedly unbuttons Ste's jeans, pulls them off his legs clumsily, finding that underneath them Ste is naked, and he shudders as arousal spikes through him. Finding Ste's mouth once more, Brendan wraps the slender legs around his waist, pulling Ste nearer to the edge of the counter and bringing their cocks into contact for the first time. Neither man bothers to contain themselves, both pant, moan and gasp loudly enough to wake the dead. Brendan isn't sure he could stop even if someone were to break the bathroom door down. Even though he can hear the DJ and the noise of the club faintly through the walls, it all feels an awfully long way off. Brendan puts two of his fingers into Ste's mouth, who sucks on them obscenely, pupils completely blown, staring at Brendan hungrily. As he presses a finger into Ste's body, he hears a satisfied hiss in his ear. God, he'd forgotten how it felt to be this close to someone. Ste pulls him into a filthy, uncoordinated kiss as Brendan pushes a second finger in to join the first. He feels saliva drip down his chin; no way of knowing whose. Brendan pulls back, spits into his hand and strokes his cock, but then hesitates. Ste looks up at him, eyes full to the brim with lust.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't want to hurt you Steven..."

There is something almost crazed about Ste now, as he licks down his own hand, adding more slickness to Brendan's dick and dragging him into place.

"You won't. I want to feel you."

Brendan is lost at the sound of Ste begging, and begins to enter him, slowly, as carefully as he can with his mind such a fog of arousal. He feels Ste's nails digging into his hips, pulling him in closer, deeper.

"Just do it Bren, please..."

They both cry out as Brendan shifts his hips; he thinks he might lose control within seconds, such is the intensity of the tight heat surrounding him.

Everything becomes hazy, a flurry of noise, pain and pleasure. Brendan is vaguely aware of blood blooming at his waist where Ste's nails have broken the skin, but with Ste's legs crossed around him tightly, he cannot bring himself to care. Their movements lack coordination: they are both too frantic, too eager. Ste encourages Brendan to thrust harder by tightening his legs, and he obliges, grabbing Ste's dick between their bodies and trying to stroke him in time, although this too is nigh on impossible. Ste has not stopped kissing him, mouth open and needy, and the noises he is making from deep in his throat are doing nothing to help Brendan make this last. Suddenly Ste shifts, one hand at the back of Brendan's neck, his mouth at his ear.

"Bren, I'm gonna come..." he whispers, lips on the shell of Brendan's ear, making him groan with the effort of holding himself together. Ste moans Brendan's name into his neck as his orgasm hits, and Brendan manages to hold on until he feels teeth bite into the junction of his neck and shoulder, sending him over the edge with a cry that sounds close to anguish.

Neither of them moves for a long time. Ste's head is still resting in his shoulder, and after what feels like a lifetime, Brendan realises with horror that his shirt and the skin underneath it is growing damp. Ste is crying. He lifts Ste's head, cradles the beloved face gently in his hands, presses his lips to his forehead. Tears are running freely down his face, eyes red and flushed.

"Hey, what's this for?" Brendan asks, using his thumbs to wipe at Ste's cheeks. Ste shakes his head, pushes Brendan away, and the silent tears continue to fall. Stepping back, Brendan pulls his trousers up from his ankles, suddenly feeling self conscious. He winces as material brushes over the grazes on his hips, but says nothing, mutely retrieving Ste's jeans and turning them so they are no longer inside out. He hands them to Ste, who clutches them in his lap wordlessly, but otherwise doesn't move. Brendan is alarmed, and tentatively places a hand on Ste's neck.

"Steven... have I hurt you?"

Ste shakes his head again, a congested "no" making its way out of his mouth. Brendan breathes an inward sigh of relief, but the respite is only temporary, as Ste whispers in a tone of horror, "what have I done?"

Brendan leans against the cool tiled wall where he had been pinned in passion only minutes earlier, and his heart plummets. Ste is crying tears of regret. His mouth is red raw from their kisses and the evidence of his orgasm is all over the front of his t shirt, not yet dry, and he already regrets it. Brendan feels each tear fall as though it is a physical blow.

"Steven, look -"

"No Brendan, don't," Ste snaps, suddenly animated with anger. Anger at Brendan. Ste hops down from the counter and pulls his jeans back on hastily, nearly losing his balance in the process. Brendan watches on, helpless. Turning the taps on full, Ste splashes water over his face, rubbing at his skin with the palms of his hands. Brendan can't remember seeing him looking so frantic.

"Steven. Please, just calm down -"

Ste has wet one of the individual hand towels and presses it against the stain on the front of his t shirt, but when Brendan speaks Ste turns to face him, eyes blazing with anger, and something else that Brendan can't put a name to.

"That's rich coming from you."

Brendan moves to touch him, but quickly realises his error.

"Don't touch me. I need to get out of here. I can't believe I let you..."

Brendan has had enough now, and indignation rears it head.

"Can't believe you let me? You can't blame me for this, you practically begged me for it -"

"Yeah? Well it is possible to say no Brendan, you don't have to fuck every guy that throws themselves at you, do you? You can say no."

"Why would I say no? I love you, you idiot!" Brendan shouts practically into Ste's face, voice high pitched and eyes wide with disbelief.

"Why though? Why do you love me eh?" Ste yells back with equal venom. Brendan laughs loudly, humorlessly and brushes a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Beats the hell out of me at this minute Steven, let me tell you."

It takes Brendan a few seconds to realise that Ste is on him again, knocking him against the toilet cubicle, kissing him furiously, but as soon as his mind catches up with his body he responds vigorously. It feels a little like groundhog day, but Brendan isn't about to complain. He is half hard again already, helpless in the face of Ste's angry need. Ste is too, he can feel him against his thigh, so he reaches for the zip of Ste's jeans... and a hand stops him. Ste leans their foreheads together to stop the kiss, although he presses his groin into Brendan's once more as though he can't help himself.

"I have to go. I'm sorry Brendan."

Ste unlocks the door and flees the bathroom, nearly knocking Anne over in the process.

"Oi! Watch it!" she shouts, tutting, and steps into the bathroom. She looks around cautiously. Brendan leans against the cubicle with his face in his hands, nevertheless sensing Anne's scrutiny.

"Smells like sex in here," she pronounces, and Brendan looks up at her, hopelessly.

"Is it that obvious?"

Anne raises an eyebrow and pointedly bends down to pick up the soap and hand lotion bottles from the floor.

"Probably not to someone who isn't looking for it. Are you okay?"

"No," Brendan pronounces honestly. Anne's face softens in sympathy.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

Anne nods, tottering over to the mirror to examine herself, heels clicking on the limestone floor.

"I was looking for you. You seemed off when I saw you on the floor earlier. I was worried."

Brendan grunts. His episode of panic earlier already seems like a lifetime ago.

"It was nothing. I'd best get back before Chez thinks I've done a runner."

"Before you do..." Anne says, causing Brendan to pause at the door.

"Do up another button on your shirt. That's a pretty savage love bite on show, might give the game away."

Brendan groans, readjusting his collar and taking a deep breath. Time to get back to work.

* * *

When it's time for her break, Cheryl pushes her way into the crowds surrounding the bar, on the hunt for Doctor Phillips. Since his original appearance Cheryl had lost sight of him, which hadn't been a huge problem until her brother disappeared too. Her altercation with Brendan left her feeling uneasy, a sense of foreboding hanging over the excitement of the party.

Cheryl finally spots him on a sofa near the bathrooms, and she feels a sense of relief when she realises Brendan is nowhere to be seen. Mark is in conversation with the man next to him, but when Cheryl approaches he looks up, smiles at her. He motions for the man to shuffle along, and Cheryl sits down with Mark, close enough that they can converse by shouting next to each other's ears.

"Cheryl. Great party," Mark begins loudly. Cheryl smells alcohol on his breath, realises the man is drunk, despite only seeing him at the bar once.

"I'm surprised to see you here Doctor Phillips," Cheryl says, modicum of politeness softening her accusatory words.

"Brendan invited me."

"I know, he said. I'm still surprised you came."

Mark's smile widened, and he gestured out at the club.

"I was curious to see this place. After hearing so much about it, I couldn't miss the opportunity when it arose."

"Doctor Phillips -"

"Please call me Mark. I'm not at work now."

Cheryl frowns at this.

"You sort of are though. Do you make a habit of seeing patients socially?"

Marks catches Cheryl's eye, and she is inexplicably cold all over.

"No I don't. Not usually."

Before Cheryl can respond, the nearest bathroom door slams open, loudly enough that it can be heard over the music and chatter. She sees Ste as he nearly knocks Mitzeee over in his hurry to exit, and watches as he storms over to the bar, pushing through the customers with little care.

"Steven's a nice lad," Mark says as his eyes drift over the scene before them.

"What does that mean?" Cheryl drops any facade, hostility now clear in her voice. Mark shrugs, seemingly unfazed.

"Just that. He's clearly fond of Brendan."

"How can you tell that from a single conversation over a bar?"

"Saw that, did you?"

"Let's face it, Doctor Phillips, you know nothing about Ste. Or my brother for that matter."

"I know Steven looks upset. Perhaps you should talk to him."

Cheryl can't understand the smug smile on Mark's face, but when she glances back over at Ste, she can see that he is right, Ste is stood in the shadows at the end of the bar, distraught expression on his face.

"This conversation isn't over," Cheryl says, rising from her position on the sofa. Trying to block out the alarm bells that are ringing in her head, Cheryl makes her way over to Ste. When he sees her he stands a little straighter, and tries but fails to straighten his face too.

"Listen Chez, I'm really sorry but I'm not feeling too good. Would you mind if I got off home now?"

In the dim lights of the club it is impossible for Cheryl to read Ste properly. He certainly looks pale and fidgety, and she puts the back of her hand over his forehead as if he is a child to check his temperature.

"You are a bit warm babe. Maybe you have a fever."

Ste nods eagerly.

"Yeah, reckon I do. Feel proper rough."

"Go on with you love, get yourself home and wrapped up. You've done us such a huge favour helping out for this long, couldn't have done it without you."

"It was nothing Chez."

Cheryl feels rather than sees her brother approach them, and she turns, waving him over.

"Bren, Ste's not feeling great so he's going to get off home. Told him we really appreciate all of his help."

"Get well soon Steven, won't you," Brendan says, giving Ste a long indecipherable look before walking away. Before Cheryl can ask Ste anything further, he too disappears, lost amidst the dancing crowd.

"Time for a drink Cheryl!" Mitzeee says, sauntering over from the opposite end of the bar with two glasses of something fizzy.

"I'm meant to be working Mitz," Cheryl says in a lame attempt at objection, taking the glass as it's offered anyway.

"Don't be daft, this is supposed to be a celebration! Let your hair down, Brendan can take care of the heavy lifting for a while."

Cheryl glances towards the bar, seeing Joel, Stuart and Brendan all in action, looking as though they have it under control.

"Sod it," Cheryl mutters, and clinks her glass against Mitzeee's, "cheers!"

* * *

Brendan can hardly believe the amount of money they've taken in just one night. He knows that drink prices have gone up in the past decade, but the bundles of cash and rolls of card receipts are still on the impressive side. Securing the earnings within the safe for the night, Brendan leans on the office wall and closes his eyes. His ears are ringing and his mind is in turmoil. What he needs is peace, quiet and a good night's sleep. Instead, he is treated to Anne stumbling into the office, holding a bottle of tequila.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't drink away the club's profits Anne," Brendan says, holding out a hand for the bottle. Anne giggles rebelliously and drinks directly from the bottle, ignoring Brendan's outstretched arm.

"Don't be grumpy just because your man abandoned you. Come and have a drink with us."

"I'm not in the mood Anne."

Anne sticks out her bottom lip and gives Brendan puppy dog eyes that he's thankfully immune to. He grabs his suit jacket from the sofa and heads out of the door, ignoring Anne's protests. He pauses next to the sofas where Joel and Cheryl have set out shot glasses among the night's detritus of empty beer bottles and half drunk cocktails.

"Can I trust you to lock up Joel?" Brendan asks, threading his arms through his jacket and assessing the levels of inebriation in front of him. Cheryl's eyes are already glassy, and Anne walks back through the club in bare feet having dispensed with her heels.

"Sit down and have a drink with us Bren," Cheryl whines, slurring her words a little and putting her arm around Anne as she flops down on to the couch next to her.

"Tempting as that sounds, some of us are going to have to work tomorrow. Joel, locking up?"

"Yeah sure, no problem," replies Joel, catching the keys Brendan throws at him in one hand.

"Try not to drink too much of my stock," Brendan grumbles, heading for the stairs.

"Bye Bren!"

When Brendan emerges into the courtyard next to Nolans, he senses that he isn't alone. For a second his heart jumps into his throat - perhaps Steven has come back...

"Wondered how much longer you were going to be."

Brendan swears silently in his head, spinning around to face Mark and trying not to let disappointment show on his face.

"What are you still doing here?" Brendan asks, although he doesn't really need to, of course he already knows the answer. The club closed nearly an hour ago, and it is a cold clear autumn night. Mark is only wearing a thin blazer, he must be freezing. And determined.

"I thought you might want to come back to mine?" Mark asks softly, and Brendan tries not to flinch when he feels a hand on his arm.

"I'm pretty done in to be honest with you doc. It's been a long day."

"We could go to yours then? It's closer right?"

The idea of having Mark in his flat makes him feel physically ill. He wonders if he would have felt like this a few hours ago, before everything that evening had thrown at him. At any rate, now there is no room for Mark. Brendan subconsciously runs his tongue over a puncture in his lip, feels the gentle throb of the cuts left on his hips by fingernails. He knows that the evidence of him and Steven is all over him, and every painful graze or bruise is precious, and will be cherished until they fade. Brendan isn't certain how to put this into words: that the imperfect, frenzied, heartbreaking sex he had shared with Steven had blown everything else out of the water.

"Another time doc."

Mark looks at Brendan for a moment, hurt and rejection evident in his eyes. Brendan has never said no before, but that was then.

"I met Steven tonight. Nice guy."

Brendan's eyes narrow and he moves towards Mark dangerously, shoulders tensed and ready for attack.

"Yeah? What's your point?"

"I can see why you're attracted to him. Good looking, happy..."

"If you do have a point to make I suggest you get to it quickly."

"Strange, that's all. Told me about his restaurant, his boyfriend, seemed to be enjoying himself behind the bar. Next time I see him he looks like the world's fallen down around him, coming out of the bathroom with Brendan Brady not a minute behind him. And now you want to go home alone. As I said, strange."

Brendan barks out a false, loud laugh.

"You're spending too much time with the crazies doc. Conspiracy theories really aren't your speciality."

Mark opens his mouth to respond, but Brendan bares his teeth, pushing his face into Mark's in an intimidating gesture.

"You want to leave it there doc. I suggest you get yourself a taxi, sleep off the booze, and forget your little chat with Steven."

Brendan steps back, gratified to see fear dancing in Mark's eyes. He reaches into his jacket pocket, fumbling for his wallet.

"Here. Cab's on me," he says, letting two notes fall to the ground theatrically. Brendan doesn't wait to see if Mark picks them up.

* * *

 **A/N: Little bit nervous about this one... I had 4 scenes in mind when I started writing this, and Brendan's panic attack in this chapter was one of them, so I hope I've done it justice! Please excuse the cheesy name for the club. Thank you again for saying nice things, it is really very much appreciated.**


	20. Chapter 20

20.

Brendan's flat was quiet. Anne had put the television on for a while, but had since turned it off, declaring the picture was making her feel queasy all over again. Brendan spent the afternoon at her beck and call, making tea and fetching ice cream. He had spent most of the morning at the club, clearing up the opening night's rubbish, and was now content to lie on his couch with Anne for the rest of the afternoon. Without the "Mitzeee" accessories she looked younger, more vulnerable, her makeup free face and oversized hoodie made her seem smaller somehow. She snuggled into Brendan's side and must have been dozing, because she hadn't made any demands for a while. Her flight back to the States was in two days, and Brendan was not prepared for her absence. The idea of her going was enough to make him feel a little hollow, he almost wished he could go with her.

Brendan picked up his phone from the arm of the couch and scrolled through his messages. Nothing from Cheryl, but he hoped that was because she was still sleeping off the night before. Joel had also gone quiet. Nothing from Ste. He opened their chat, noting that Ste hadn't been online since the day before. Brendan began to type a message, and then realised he had no idea what he wanted to say. I'm sorry? Brendan wasn't sure he was, not really. I love you? Lovesick puppy wasn't a good look on him, and besides, he couldn't have been clearer about his feelings. Don't hate me? This was what he typed on to the screen, but he hesitated to send it. Was it too needy, too desperate? Brendan didn't want Ste to be angry with him, couldn't cope with the idea of animosity between them, not after weeks of fragile 'friendship'. Which had really been weeks of tormenting each other, of testing the boundaries to see how far they could push each other.

After his regrettable drunken episode a couple of weeks earlier, Brendan had visited the Olive Press for coffee as Ste had gently suggested. He had been a little sheepish, but decided it was best to rip off the plaster of their next encounter as swiftly as was possible. He knew there were shadows under his eyes, and he was clad in jeans and a zipped up hoodie, the most casual clothes he owned, but Brendan hoped Ste wouldn't care. Sure enough, when he asked for Steven, the girl at the counter disappeared and reappeared with him in tow almost instantly. Ste's grin was so wide it looked as though it might crack his face.

"Well you look rough," he pronounced, looking like he was glad to see Brendan suffering.

"Really know how to boost a fella's ego Steven," Brendan muttered, leaning his weight on the counter because standing up was taking far too much effort. Ste laughed his ungainly honking laugh and turned to operate the coffee machine.

"Here, what got you in that state then?"

"It's called whiskey Steven, I believe you're acquainted."

"If you're going to be a smart arse you're not getting this coffee."

Brendan smirked, watching Ste grinding coffee beans and frothing milk expertly. He was almost tempted into telling the truth; that he had lost his mind at the thought of Ste and his boyfriend having a merry old time with his sister, excluding him and making Ben an even more tangible figure in his image of Ste's life.

"Where's Ben this morning?" Brendan asked instead. Ste twisted his head round to give him a strange look.

"He's at work, why?"

"Last night looked cosy."

Brendan hadn't meant the words to sound quite as bitter as they had done.

"Brendan..."

"I'm just sorry that I ruined it."

Ste handed Brendan his coffee and stared into his eyes sympathetically.

"You didn't ruin anything," Ste said softly. Brendan wondered if Ste thought he had purposely tried to sabotage the evening. He hadn't set out with that intention, hadn't set out with any intention really, but hearing that his behaviour had been dismissed as harmless at best, insignificant at worst, left him feeling hollow. Ste came around from behind the counter then, and grabbing Brendan's free hand, led him to a table.

"Sit down here, and I'll do you some breakfast, Italian style."

Brendan nodded, gave Ste's hand a squeeze, and sat down. This need for body contact was not helping Brendan focus on the just friends agenda. Neither was the special treatment. Over the weeks of the renovation, there were countless coffees, numerous breakfasts, and pizzas delivered to the club when Brendan was stuck at the club late. Ste had been everywhere, and Brendan would have been a liar if he'd said that he minded.

And now, so soon, it had come to this. Please don't hate me. Anne stirred, stretching and rubbing her eyes. Brendan abandoned his phone, leaving the message unsent.

"How long have I been asleep?" Anne asked, causing Brendan to squint down at his watch.

"Maybe an hour?"

"And you've let me use you as a pillow the whole time? Such a gent."

"It's fine. I needed some time to think."

"That sounds dangerous. Dare I ask what about?"

Anne was clearly feeling better if she was ready for gossip. Brendan got up from the couch and retrieved a couple of beers from the fridge. Anne pulled her face, but he forced the bottle into her hand anyway.

"It'll help Anne, trust me."

Anne took a delicate sip from the bottle as a test, and once she was satisfied that her stomach was no longer about to rebel, she took a proper swig.

"So, you going to tell me what happened last night then?"

"Not sure what there is to tell," Brendan said, lying back on to the couch and pressing his fingers into his eyes.

"Well... are you back together?" Anne asked, making Brendan huff out a laugh.

"What gave it away Anne, the speed at which Steven fled the scene?" he retorted sarcastically, and Anne rolled her eyes.

"More likely it was your current sunny demeanour."

Brendan glanced at his ominously silent phone.

"Thought about sending him a message..."

"Saying what?"

"Hadn't figured that part out yet."

"Wow, what happened to treat them mean and keep them keen Brady eh?" Anne asked, tucking her feet underneath her on the couch.

"He spent ten years in prison. I've not exactly got all the time in the world to waste."

Anne considered his words for a moment.

"That might be the problem you know."

"What's that?"

"Well you _have_ been away. There's no getting away from that. Ste had moved on."

"Yeah, I'm well aware of that, but you and my genius sister told me to risk it anyway. Last time I listen to you."

"What I mean is, things didn't change for you, but they did for Ste."

Brendan frowned, exasperated with Anne and her lack of clarity.

"You said that real feelings don't change. You know I'm no good at this Anne. I'm relying on you here."

"Feelings don't change, it's circumstances that do. Who instigated things last night?"

Brendan thought back to the peculiar episode in his office the night before, Ste standing topless in the middle of the room. Had that been a challenge? Had he been daring Brendan to act, to reach out and touch him? The fear in Ste's eyes when he had been in the bathroom with Brendan. The way that fear had melted so rapidly into heat and desire just with one look. The protection afforded by the locked door.

"Steven. I think... it was Steven."

Anne looked inexplicably triumphant.

"Like I said, circumstances are the barrier, because it clearly isn't the feelings. Be patient, give him time to get everything sorted. He's not twenty one anymore, he can't just drop everything to be with you."

"Why not?"

"Brendan, you're being characteristically unreasonable."

Brendan grumbled inarticulately, draining his beer bottle in lieu of replying properly. Anne patted his knee sympathetically.

"Patience is a virtue Brendan."

"So I've been told," he muttered, and picked up his phone again. Deleting his previous effort, he wrote the words 'hope you're okay' instead. After a moment's though, he added 'Steven'. Brendan pressed send before he had time to question himself, letting out a breath as he did so. He suspected his patience was about to be stretched to breaking point.

* * *

During the day, when the club was closed, Brendan liked to use the lull in activity to get the paperwork done. Often he was there alone, as there was little need for the extra staff apart from over the weekend. This habit afforded Brendan some much needed peace in his world, which lately seemed to be terribly loud. Nolans was proving popular, and even weekdays had been busy, which meant that Brendan wasn't getting back to his flat until three or four most nights. Although Joel and Anne had returned to their respective lives hundreds and thousands of miles away, Cheryl remained resolutely in Chester, and was often to be found in Nolans with Brendan. She had made the decision to stay until after the new year, so Nate had rented a barn conversion he had found just outside of Hollyoaks for them both, rather than living out of a hotel.

Brendan knew without having to have it spelled out that Cheryl was concerned about leaving him alone over the holidays, a time she was insistent was all about family. He tried, without success, to convince his sister that he would be spending most of December working, and as such did not require looking after. The truth was that after so many Christmases behind bars Brendan could barely remember what a normal celebration looked like. Besides, the Christmas before his imprisonment had been largely spent in the company of Steven and the children, which had been a wonderful healing balm to the sting of having Seamus in his house, particularly with Cheryl so oblivious to his discomfort and the reason for his distance. Perhaps this was the catalyst for Cheryl's determination to have a 'family' event, although being the third wheel to Cheryl and Nate's happiness was hardly his idea of a joyful festive season.

Loneliness was creeping in, a flat and empty feeling that Brendan was grappling with unsuccessfully. It had been three weeks with nothing from Ste, and Brendan was feeling the absence keenly, as though he was in withdrawal from a drug he had been dependent on, which in many ways was an accurate description. Brendan had, despite all of the red flags, allowed himself to become accustomed to Ste's presence in his life again, looked forward to their tentative banter, and had been thrilled at every unannounced appearance. In the back of his mind, Brendan had known that the more time they spent together, the harder it would be for Ste to deny the evident attraction that was there between them, still. When the resistance had broken down that night at the club, Brendan had allowed himself to hope that that would be it, that finally Ste would be with him. Of course, Anne had reminded him that it was unlikely to prove that straightforward, and so Brendan had waited, with uncharacteristic patience.

He stayed away from the Olive Press, despite its magnetic pull. The only glimpse Brendan had of Ste over the course of those three weeks was one morning, during his daily run. He had left the flat a little later than normal. After a disrupted, nightmare filled sleep, Brendan had needed the extra time in bed, but noticed the difference in time almost as soon as he had hit the streets. There were more people than usual milling about in the village, where Brendan normally found the place deserted. As Brendan's trainer clad feet pounded against the pavement, he caught a glimpse of Ste coming down the Oakdale Drive steps wearing his chef's whites, a preoccupied look marring his flawless features. If he had noticed Brendan in turn he certainly didn't let on, and Brendan, having slowed his pace at the sight of him, sped up once more, practically fleeing the village.

So Brendan waited, and used the paperwork at the club to keep him occupied. He balanced takings with outgoings and edited staff rotas to distract his mind from his aching heart. Whilst studying the plans for the Christmas Eve event at his desk, Brendan heard a sound like a scratching of nails against a polished surface, which seemed to be coming from within the club. He frowned. No one else was due in for another two hours. Brendan left his desk silently and headed for the door. Again the sound jarred through him, causing him to wince in pain.

"Hello?" Brendan called, emanating his usual confidence and calm but inwardly readying himself for a possible confrontation. Stepping into the club, he looked around carefully. That noise again, further away now, like thunder retreating into the distance. A shadow moved in the darkness near the staircase.

"Alright Brady?"

Brendan stood stock still, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him. But sure enough, out of the shadows, stepping into the light, was the figure of Warren Fox. He held up his hands as though he were entering a boxing ring, smug smile on his hated face. Brendan sneered instinctively.

"Pleased to see me?"

"Surprised. You know, what with you being dead and all."

Warren let out a laugh at that, and Brendan felt a shiver run down the length of his body.

"Oh yeah, that. You'd think people would have the brains to realise, faking that stuff is so easy once you know how."

Brendan shook his head, trying to clear it, to make sense of the horror unfolding before him.

"No. It's not possible. Joel identified the body, there was a funeral -"

"You know what they say Brady. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

Brendan went to speak, then stopped himself. How could this be possible? Cheryl had expressed reservations, but they had quickly been dismissed. Had she been right all along?

"You mean -"

"That Joel's been with me the whole time? What do you think?"

Brendan made his way to the bar in a daze, unsure of what to think. He poured a drink sloppily, and as an afterthought, poured a second one, pushing it across the bar towards Warren, who gave no sign of moving from his spot near the stairs. The grin on Warren's face was boiling Brendan's blood, and he held the glass in his hand in a vice like grip to try and cling on to control.

"You didn't really believe it was that easy did you? That Joel was happy to sign this place over to you, just like that?" Warren asked, stepping slowly forwards, hands stuffed in jeans pockets in a casual yet protective stance. Brendan thought back to his time with Joel in those first few days. He had seemed genuine, seemed to be affected by the will reading and the prospect of having to deal with the aftermath of Warren's chaos. But of course, Brendan had been dealing with his own issues, having only just reentered the outside world. He had been all too eager to grasp the opportunity that Joel held out for him, a second chance, just like that, with so little effort. Brendan had wanted the club too desperately to examine Joel's motives too closely. How could he have let himself be blindsided in this way?

"Listen Foxy, whatever your intentions, I'm fairly certain the authorities won't take such a lenient view of you orchestrating a meeting with your maker for the second time. I can't imagine how many laws that must be breaking. All it'd take is one phone call, and the police would be round here like a shot."

"Oh, don't worry, I'm not sticking around. I just wanted to warn you in person, not to get too comfortable. No matter what that contract may say, this club still belongs to me."

With that, Warren turned his back on the bar, leaving the proffered drink untouched.

"Foxy wait -"

"I'll be in touch. See you around, Brady," Warren called as he skipped down the stairs. Brendan hesitated only for a moment, before running down the stairs in pursuit, but by the time he reached the ground floor there was no sign of Warren Fox anywhere. Brendan flicked all of the lights on at the wall, screwing his eyes up at the sudden brightness, but the illumination only served to prove the club was empty. It was then that Brendan noticed the door to the club was ajar, a sliver of natural light just visible. Growling under his breath, Brendan flung open the door, only to career into a shocked looking Ste.

"Fucking hell Bren, watch it, I nearly went flying! Brendan?"

Brendan was still frantically scouring either end of the street for signs of Warren Fox, heart singing in his ears. He grasped Ste's shoulders roughly, causing him to look alarmed.

"Did you see anyone leave just now Steven?"

Ste glanced in the direction of Brendan's frantic eyes.

"What? No. Brendan -"

"Are you sure? Think carefully Steven."

"Positive. You going to tell me what's going on?"

Brendan released his grip on Ste's shoulders and nodded absently to himself. Warren wouldn't have just charged out of Nolans into broad daylight where anyone could see him. He must have had an accomplice, someone waiting for him in a car perhaps...

He started as he felt a hand on his cheek. Ste was staring at him, concern evident on his face. Brendan took a deep breath, and resolved to put Warren's appearance temporarily to the back of his mind, because here Ste was, finally back in front of him. Warmth spread through him and he placed his own hand on top of Ste's gently.

"Long time no see Steven," Brendan murmured, moving his face in the cradle of their hands, rubbing his stubble over Ste's palm and pressing a soft kiss into it. Ste pulled his hand away hastily, breaking the spell of the moment.

"I came to give you something. Could I... can I come in for a bit?"

Brendan nodded, holding the door open and gesturing into the club. He watched Ste stand in the middle of the room awkwardly and almost felt sorry for him. Brendan turned down the lights a little to a more ambient level, and headed towards the bar.

"Want a drink?"

"No, ta. I'm working aren't I."

Brendan shrugged and changed direction, instead leaning against the bar facing Ste, who looked guilty and uncomfortable, wearing a forest green hoodie over his uniform. Brendan was determined not to be the one to break the silence, despite his yearning to hear what Ste had to say. As it always did when it was just the two of them, electricity crackled through the room, tension inevitably rising. Ste shifted his weight between his feet, further betraying his agitation.

"I don't know what to say to you."

Brendan rolled his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly.

"Well, I'm glad you popped in to share that with me Steven," Brendan said, sarcasm heavy in his tone. He wished Ste didn't look so distressed, because all he wanted to do was reach out and touch him, reassure him. He was busy twisting the sleeve cuffs of his hoodies, the gesture making him seem younger than his years. Brendan was forcibly reminded of Ste in the first few weeks of their acquaintance, when he was permanently clothed in his Chez Chez uniform and had been so uncertain of Brendan's motives.

"Look, I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean to leave it this long -"

"It's been over three weeks Steven," Brendan interrupted loudly, irritation at the lost time surfacing. Ste's eyes flashed at his tone, passion flaring behind them. Good, Brendan thought.

"I just couldn't. I were angry, right, and -"

"You said you weren't angry. You told Chez, you told _me_ that you weren't angry with me -"

"I know! God, I don't want to be!" Ste was yelling now, tears running freely down his face. Brendan couldn't stand the distance any longer and crossed the floor towards Ste, holding his distressed face in his hands, wiping away the tears streaming down his cheeks as best he could. Ste let out a noise that was halfway between an agonised shout and a sob, and Brendan felt the ever present dagger of guilt tear afresh at his insides. He pulled Ste into his arms, cradling him tenderly, Ste's hands grasping the back of Brendan's shirt for dear life.

"I tried really hard to get back to normal, but I couldn't remember what normal looked like... you're everywhere, in everything I do..."

Ste trailed off, and Brendan pressed a kiss into his hair, breathing him in. He smelt of freshly baked bread, and of lemons, and of hope. Ste shifted so that his face was tilted towards Brendans, his shining eyes meeting with Brendan's intent gaze. Brendan touched his lips to Ste's gently, a reassuring gesture rather than a passionate one. Ste returned the pressure, opening his mouth and silently inviting Brendan to do the same. Their tongues massaged together slowly, intimately, Brendan tasting salt from Ste's tears. Pinpricks of warmth and desire made their way through Brendan's body, and he knew there was nowhere that he'd rather be, that he could stay in that embrace forever and be content. After what seemed simultaneously like years and no time at all, Ste moved away, placing a hand on his lips almost wonderingly. Brendan sighed, keeping his head down. The last thing he wanted was to see anything resembling horror or regret on Ste's face. To his surprise, two hands touched his face and forced him to look up into beautiful, intent blue eyes.

"I can't think straight when I'm with you," Ste said, a sad smile on his face, eyes still shining, but no longer with tears. Brendan didn't know what to say to that. For him, it was the opposite way round; only with Ste's presence did anything make any sense. He cleared his throat, darted his eyes away from Ste's anxiously.

"Steven, I -"

"No Brendan, wait. I need you to answer me something, okay? And be honest. What exactly do you want from me?"

It was impossible not to look at Ste then, such was the desperation to convey sincerity. There was only one possible answer.

"Everything, Steven. Everything."

Ste let out a long shuddering breath and released his hold on Brendan's face once more.

"I thought I'd made myself clear," Brendan said carefully, frightened of saying the wrong thing. Ste nodded distractedly, taking a seat at the bar and rubbing his face with his hands.

"You had. I just needed to hear it."

There was a long silence. Nerves rattled in Brendan's gut, mouth turning dry. He swallowed, attempting to push some words out into the atmosphere.

"So what now? Hmmm?"

"I... I'm sorry Brendan. I know what you want me to say, what you need to hear, but... I need more time. I can't just walk out on my life, I need... I need you to give me more time."

Don't be 'characteristically unreasonable', Brendan warned himself silently.

"Okay Steven. Much as I don't like it, if you need time, you've got it. But..."

"Yeah?" Ste prompted.

"Just don't go disappearing on me again. These past few weeks... well... they weren't good."

Patience is for the virtuous, and Brendan was certainly never virtuous. The weeks without Ste had been filled with sickening anxiety and frequent visits from Walker. Brendan's level of self loathing was at a high, and he needed Ste to steady him, to make the bad days worth living through. Ste was studying Brendan; the scrutiny was welcome from no one but him.

"I won't. Disappear I mean. I didn't enjoy it, me. Being away from you."

"Is that so?" Brendan asked, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards a little as he sat on the bar stool next to Ste. The thought that Ste had missed him too was gratifying. It almost made the ordeal worth it. Almost.

"Here, don't let it go to your head," Ste returned, a grin breaking onto his face in turn, his white teeth visible. Brendan resisted the urge to kiss the smile, which was so welcome after their most recent interactions had been filled with tears. After a moment Ste seemed to remember something, and patted his hoodie pockets.

"I actually came here to give you something, didn't I."

"I can think of a few things that'd be well received," Brendan said with a suggestive raising of his eyebrows. Ste glared at him playfully.

"Unlucky Brendan. Here you go."

Ste held out his hand, motioning for Brendan to put his out in turn. What dropped into his hand was surprising. For a second Brendan couldn't breathe. He stroked the edges of the cross disbelievingly.

"You still have this?"

Ste shrugged as though it wasn't a big deal.

"Found it when I moved house didn't I. I was going to send it to you, you know, in prison, but I didn't think you'd open that either, so..."

Brendan stared at the chain, reminding himself of the weight and feel of it.

"Didn't think I'd see this again. Thought Douglas must have taken it, you never mentioned it when we were -"

"Yeah, Doug did have it at first. But he remembered he had it, after you went away, and he gave it me."

Brendan noticed that a flash of what looked like guilt crossed Ste's features, and he studiously looked away when mentioning Doug. Brendan's eyes narrowed, sensing there was more to this story than Ste was admitting to. Before he could question further though, Ste held out something else: a scrap of till roll with an address on it.

"So this is the other thing. Don't get mad right..."

"Why did anyone ever start a sentence with the words 'don't get mad', when the resulting conversation will almost certainly have that effect, hmmm?"

"Chez might've mentioned that you've been a bit... down."

Brendan sighed and stood up, deciding he was ready for another drink even if Ste didn't want one. He grabbed a beer from the nearest fridge and began searching for a bottle opener. Ste slid one across the bar towards him silently.

"Cheryl said..."

"Yeah, but look Brendan, she's not going round telling everyone or anything. Just me."

"I'm fine Steven."

Brendan didn't believe that himself, knew there was something wrong with him, knew it was on a knife edge, so close to spinning out of control, but Steven didn't need to know that. He didn't look convinced anyway, his eyes were raised in a cynical expression.

"So what was that about at the door before? Who were you looking for eh?"

Forcibly reminded of the appearance of Warren Fox, Brendan took a long drink from the bottle he was holding, and leant over the bar, his face close to Ste's.

"Just kids playing knock and run Steven. No big deal."

"Whatever Brendan," Ste said, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated fashion to show he wasn't buying any of it, "anyway, I did some research. Found the details of your priest friend."

Brendan pulled the scrap of paper towards him, noticing that the first line of the address was the name of a church.

"Father Des?" Brendan asked. He wouldn't necessarily refer to the man as "his" priest, but he supposed Ste must have remembered Brendan's unconventional therapy of the time before; when he had been dealing with Lynsey, and Doug, and Walker.

"Yeah. He's moved to, like, a different area or something."

Brendan smiled fondly.

"Parish. Priests work in parishes."

"He's moved to a different parish then. It's the other side of Chester, but still near enough. I thought - well, I thought you could go see him. He could help you, you know, like he did before."

Brendan was aware that he was supposed to be giving Ste time, but in that moment he didn't care. He leaned further over the bar, and putting two fingers on Ste's face to tilt it, kissed him deeply, trying to pour as much love and gratitude into the gesture as he could. When they broke apart, Ste was blushing beautifully.

"What was that for?"

"To say thank you Steven. How did you find this? Can't have been easy."

Ste grinned at Brendan, laughter in his eyes.

"You're such a throwback sometimes. Anything's possible with the internet Bren."

Brendan looked down at the address again. It was written in a neat, precise hand.

"This isn't your writing."

"No. Asked our Leah to look it up didn't I. Kids are something else with technology."

The mention of Leah brought a sad smile to Brendan's face.

"She with you at the minute?"

"Yeah. It's half term so I've got them both. It's well manic."

Brendan and Ste had talked about the children at length over the weeks of their reacquaintance, Ste showing his enthusiasm for family life had never diminished. In some ways Brendan was eager to see Leah and Lucas, as he had grown to love them in their brief time together as a family, but the idea of them not recognising him made him hesitant to suggest it. It was clear to Brendan, without it having to be spelled out, that the children's bond with Ben was one of the reasons Ste was finding it so tough to make the break.

"Is _he_ there?" Brendan asked quietly, coming out from behind the bar and facing Ste, afraid of the answer but unable to refrain from asking the question. Sure enough, Ste's face clouded over with a frown, and Brendan wished he could stuff the words back into his mouth, choke himself with them rather than causing further discord between them.

"Course he is. Brendan -"

"It's fine. Forget I asked."

Brendan's brain was overloaded, he couldn't concentrate on anything with the intensity required. This was his reward for anticipating a quiet day of paperwork - the reappearance of Warren and a bucket load of emotional baggage from Steven.

At that moment the upstairs balcony door slammed, and his sister called, "anyone home?" in a singsong voice.

"Down here Chez," Brendan shouted back tiredly; yet another spanner in the works of his peace and quiet. Cheryl scampered down the stairs, wearing a smile and an enormous leopard print fur coat. When she caught sight of Ste her smile stretched wider, if that was possible.

"Hiya Ste love. This is a nice surprise."

Brendan tried and failed not to roll his eyes and retreated behind the bar once more, retrieving a bottle of red wine from the display and pouring two healthy glasses of the ruby liquid. He pushed the drinks towards Cheryl and Ste, who both grabbed them without a pause in conversation. So much for not drinking Steven, Brendan thought wryly.

"Hey Chez, how's things?"

"Oh, grand love. Did Bren tell you I'm here until January now? Nate's found us this beautiful place to stay for Christmas, I'm so excited. Proper family Christmas. What are you doing this year? Feels like we haven't seen you in ages."

Ste studiously avoided Brendan's gaze, instead offering Cheryl a bright smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I know, been dead busy, me. With the holidays coming up and that. It's Amy's turn to have the kids, so I'll be working most of it."

Cheryl's face softened in sympathy, and she shot an odd pained glance in Brendan's direction.

"You must miss them babe, when they're with Amy I mean."

Brendan understood Cheryl's look then: she was thinking of his boys, and the fact that they had chosen to sever all ties with the Brady family. He was forcibly reminded of the day Cheryl had visited him to impart the news that Padraig had opted to change his surname to the one Eileen and Michael shared; he would be a Brady no longer. It had been an odd piece of news to receive; painful certainly, but in truth Brendan supposed he could hardly blame the lad. Michael had been a father in all of the ways that Brendan hadn't been, and the unsavoury associations of a father in prison were not something a teenage boy should ever have been shackled with. To Paddy, Brendan was a stranger, an unreliable and dangerous spectre that occasionally landed in his life to reek havoc before disappearing again. He hated to admit it, but Brendan knew it would have hurt more if it had been Declan who had disowned the name of Brady, though nothing had been mentioned on that front. He too had refused to have anything to do with Cheryl since Brendan's conviction, a fact that caused his sister evident pain. Brendan felt envious of Ste at that moment; the affection and love that radiated from his features could only come from having a secure, deep bond with his children that Brendan, through his own doing, would never have the opportunity to experience.

"Nah, it's fine, I'll see them a bit anyway, lucky me and Ames are mates aren't I. They're with me this week anyway, with half term and that."

"That's nice, got anything exciting planned?"

"Taking them the fireworks tomorrow night. Lucas loves it, has done since he were little."

Cheryl clapped her hands and squealed.

"Oh me too, who doesn't love a sparkler eh? Perhaps my big brother will take me..."

Brendan grunted from the corner of the bar, where he had been stood in the shadows quietly sipping a whiskey.

"What, with you and Nate, love's young dream? Real tempting sis."

"Actually Bren, Nate's catching a flight tonight, needs to sort some stuff at the estate for while we're away, so it'll just be you and me."

"Oh, well in that case I can hardly wait," Brendan said, with precisely no excitement in his voice whatsoever. Ste smirked and stood up, pulling down the bottom of his hoodie as he did so.

"Well, might see you there then, if you manage to persuade mister life and soul over there."

"Every day with me is full of fireworks Steven, you know that," Brendan caught Ste's eye and watched a bloom of crimson spread across his cheeks. Cheryl, missing the double meaning implied in Brendan's words, laughed loudly.

"That's true enough. See you tomorrow babe."

Once Ste had left, Brendan caught a flash of silver mirrored in his glass. He retrieved the cross from the counter and clasped it around his neck. Despite the many years that had passed, its weight still felt familiar and somehow reassuring.

"What's that you've got?" Cheryl asked, holding her wine glass to her lips. Brendan gave a small shrug as he tucked the chain into his shirt out of sight, the cool metal kissing his skin.

"My cross. Steven found it. He thought I'd like it back."

"How come Ste had it?"

Brendan sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"Long story."

Cheryl was considering him thoughtfully, with an intensity that made Brendan uncomfortable.

"Has he had that since before you went away?"

Brendan turned away from his sister, rearranging bottles that did not require rearranging.

"Guess so."

"And he kept it all this time?"

"Don't read anything into it sis."

"But -"

"Just leave it, yeah?" Brendan snapped, almost instantly filling with remorse, because when he turned back around he saw the hurt evident on Cheryl's face. In the distance, almost as though it was coming from the empty cellar, Brendan was sure he could hear that metallic scraping noise he had heard earlier. Suddenly claustrophobia washed over him, as though the club might drown him if he remained there. The air was thick and oppressive, and his heart began to pound erratically.

"Sorry Chez. It's been a long week. How about dinner in the Dog? Just you and me."

"Only if you're buying," Cheryl replied, Brendan instantly forgiven. Thank God for Cheryl, Brendan thought.

"Deal," he said. An hour or two away from the club and Steven and Warren bloody Fox was just what was needed. He would need a clear head to decide what the hell he was going to do next.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Thank you so much to those of you who have left reviews, it's such a nice feeling to know people are reading and investing in the story! I am a huge lover of Brendan and Ste together (and look forward to writing their interactions the most), however I do also love me some doomed romance, so when I said in my summary that this is not a happy story I wasn't kidding - this chapter is an example of this. Angst ahead! x**

21.

The bonfire was set up in the field behind the school. It was a clear, cold evening, and the stewards were wrapped in scarves and padded jackets as shields against the cold. There were the usual fairground rides and candyfloss stands set out nearby, as well as a marquee housing drinks and food vendors, with benches set up in the middles offering some scant shelter from the near freezing conditions. As crowds gathered, the torches were held to the kindling and the stack of wood steadily succumbed to the fire, golden flames licking and writhing into the air along with a plume of smoke. The sap bled from the branches and snapped and crackled, embers soaring and settling not far from the scorched pile. The fire danced in Brendan's eyes as he stood facing the flames, a little mesmerised by the destruction that the bonfire symbolised. He breathed in the comforting smell of burning wood, whilst attempting to block out the racket being made by happy families surrounding him.

His mind, which was perpetually unsettled anyway, was in a greater state of turmoil than usual. He had been seeing Warren everywhere; at the coffee shop counter, at the corner shop when buying gum, even in the shadows of the alley near club. Of course, when Brendan took a second look, Warren was always replaced with somebody else, somebody (seemingly) harmless, but this constant hyper alertness was leaving him exhausted. Brendan knew this sense that he was being watched, that anyone could be an agent of Warren Fox waiting for him to slip up, was an unsustainable one. Late that afternoon Brendan had called Joel and arranged to meet with him in York after the weekend; it being the halfway point for the two men to travel to. He couldn't bear the thought that Joel might have been working against him, but in logical, lucid moments Brendan realised that in any case it was highly unlikely. He had been taken in by people in the past, it was true, Walker was a particularly horrific example of that, but on this occasion it was difficult to fathom what Joel's motivation might be. Brendan was also struggling to see the endgame. If he was being set up, why would Joel simply sign the club over and then leave him to it? It made no sense. And yet...

"There you are!" Cheryl shrieked, coming around Brendan's back and causing him to jump. Cheryl was wrapped up in her furry coat and a thick black pashmina, and was holding a packet of sparklers in her gloved hand, child like grin on her face.

"Isn't this great?" Cheryl continued, linking her arm through Brendan's and leading him around the bonfire towards the refreshments marquee.

"Smashing," Brendan said, all traces of humour wiped from his tone. Cheryl squeezed his arm as they dodged an excitable gaggle of children holding sticky toffee apples.

"Come on Bren, don't be such a grump. Shall I get you a mulled wine?"

"Do I look like the type of fella who drinks mulled anything?"

"Or cider maybe," Cheryl went on as though Brendan hadn't spoken, "it's got loads of sugar in, you should love it. Be right back."

Before Brendan could protest Cheryl had wandered into the crowd surrounding the marquee, probably to join a hideously long queue by the looks of it. Brendan suddenly couldn't think of a reason for his not bringing a hip flask with him. He glanced around and caught sight of a familiar face standing alone warming his hands against the bonfire's heat. Brendan weaved through the families stood in between them, and as he approached Ste a smile bloomed on the other man's face.

"Hey," Ste said, and Brendan took a deep breath, taking him in. The bonfire lit Ste's skin with an amber glow, firelight flickering in his normally blue eyes, making them seem like they were sparkling, glittering amongst the ash and heat. The tip of his nose was pink with the cold and Brendan had to resist the urge to warm it with his mouth.

"Dad, I got a big bag because it worked out cheaper, so Lucas will just have to deal with sharing, okay?"

As Brendan had stood admiring Ste, he hadn't noticed that a teenage girl had approached them, holding up a huge bag of candy floss as though it was a trophy. Leah was wearing a beanie hat low on her forehead, but some stray strands of blonde hair had escaped the hat and framed her face. It was the first time that Brendan had been so close to her, and he realised just how pretty Leah was, all delicate features and flushed cheeks, with eyes very like her mothers. She looked between Brendan and Ste, and her face split into a mischievous grin, tongue in between her teeth impishly, and even though they shared no blood it was clear that the expression was one learnt from her father.

"Sorry... am I interrupting something here?" Leah asked, waving the candy floss bag in front of Ste's face as though to draw him out of a trance. Ste looked at his daughter, a long blink to pull him out of the daze he seemed to have settled into.

"What? No, course not. Where's your brother gone?"

Leah rolled her eyes dramatically, and Brendan smiled despite himself, recognising the frustrated action of an older sibling.

"He's gone the drinks tent. Probably minesweeping the mulled wine as we speak. Chill out dad, he'll be back in a minute."

Leah looked Brendan directly in the face then, and he felt a shudder run through him as recognition flashed in her eyes, followed by a frown of confusion.

"I'm sorry if it's rude to ask, but do I know you from somewhere? I feel like I do," Leah asked tentatively, and Ste's eyes widened in disbelief.

"I'm an old friend of your dads," Brendan said calmly, even though on the inside his nerves were singing.

"A very old friend -"

"Careful," Brendan smirked, and Ste blushed awkwardly.

"I didn't mean... what I meant was, you were very young when I last saw Brendan, Leah."

"Brendan..." repeated Leah, seemingly to herself, "why do I know that name?"

"Like I said Leah -"

Leah suddenly clapped her gloved hands together, dropping her candy floss in the process, and let out a gleeful shriek.

"That's right! Brendan! Your name came up _a lot_ when we were kids. Daddy Doug hated you."

"Leah!" Ste snapped, clearly attempting to halt any further information being released from Leah's recollections.

"Daddy Doug?" Brendan queried, a frown marring this features. Ste looked away from his hastily, and Brendan felt vaguely nauseous. Leah meanwhile didn't seem to notice the effect her words had had on the two men in front of her.

"It's nothing, right. A silly nickname Lucas and Leah had to wind Doug up . Which they've been warned not to use," Ste said pointedly, and Leah rolled her eyes again, removing her gloves and stuffing them in her coat pocket. She bent down to retrieve the candy floss bag and ripped it open.

"Oh come on dad, I hardly ever get to annoy him since he moved. Apparently when we were really little we used to call Doug that, but I don't remember. Much better to use as a joke now that we're older, but Doug hates it," Leah directed her explanation to Brendan, who nodded slowly, mind working overtime, wondering just how long Doug had stuck around for, and why the Hay children were close enough to Doug for them to provide him with a teasing nickname. Leah finished putting a wad of candy floss into her mouth and resumed her study of Brendan. He felt as though she were assessing him, as though he were under the microscope, about to be dissected. Her lips were tinged an unnatural pink from the sugar, and her eyes sparkled with the firelight, making Leah resemble a character from a fairy tale. She offered the candy floss bag to Brendan, who broke off a sticky clump of the stuff silently. It felt like a trade of some sort between them, and he got the sense that Leah knew more about him than she was letting on in front of her father.

"Sorry we took so long, the queue for the drinks is murder," said a man who appeared at Ste's side from nowhere, handing him a paper cup full of a steaming liquid, and leaning in to kiss him casually in apology, as though he had a right to. A teenage boy was behind him carrying two further drinks, a boy with a thick sweep of golden brown hair and features so like Ste's that Brendan almost gasped. He hadn't really considered what a thirteen year old Lucas would look like, and he wasn't prepared for the uncanny family resemblance. It occurred to Brendan that in just six years Lucas would be the age Ste had been when they had met, and that he had been little more than a baby when Brendan had gone away. The carpet of time rolled out behind him, so much gone by and missed, time that he could never get back, steps that could never be retraced. The polite but blank smile offered to him by Lucas was the heartbreaking proof of that.

He realised that the man now in front of him was Ben, and that Ste's boyfriend was waiting patiently for Ste to make an introduction, which did not seem to be forthcoming. Ste appeared to be momentarily stunned, so Brendan took the initiative and stretched out a hand in greeting.

"Brendan Brady," he said, and Ben swapped his drink to the other hand to shake Brendan's politely. Ben smiled, revealing a white teethed Hollywood polish, and Brendan found himself childishly applying a little more pressure to the handshake than was strictly necessary.

"Brendan, of course. Nice to finally meet you."

The easy, casual reply made Brendan scowl inwardly. Ben clearly did not feel the need to introduce himself in turn; Brendan was expected to know who he was, in what amounted to a declaration of Ben's position in Ste's life. Brendan swallowed the urge to punch Ben into the ground, to whisper menacingly into his ear that he shouldn't be so sure of Ste's devotion, to delight in telling him that Ste could never be faithful to another man when Brendan was a presence in his life.

Brendan didn't do any of these things of course. Ste cast him a warning, almost pleading glance, and instead of inciting violence Brendan plastered a false smile on to his face.

"Likewise," Brendan said, and then pointing at the cup in Ste's hand, "thought you hated mulled wine Steven?"

Ste's eyes flitted towards Ben guiltily, who was wearing an expression of surprise.

"Oh? You said to get you 'whatever'. You've never mentioned it -"

"Yeah. He's got a thing about warm alcohol, doesn't think it's 'natural'. Ain't that right Steven?"

Ste shifted uncomfortably and shrugged.

"Well yeah, but it don't matter right -"

"That's quite a memory you have there Brendan," said Ben, friendly tone belying the stony stare he was levelling at Brendan. The implication of Ben's words was unmistakable - Brendan needed to have a long memory to remember details of his life with Ste. Brendan fixed his gaze on Ste's face, who looked as though he wished the ground would swallow him up.

"I never forget anything important," Brendan murmured, trying to transmit to Ste that he had stored every conversation, every habit, every odd comical quirk. Ben made a scoffing noise in an attempt to cut through the intensity of the moment.

"And Ste's drinking preferences are important?"

Brendan did not bother to hide the disdainful sneer he cast Ben's way, as though he was the fool for suggesting that Ste's preferences would be anything _but_ important.

"Yes," Brendan practically hissed. The three men stood roughly in a triangle, shoulders tensed under the shelter of winter coats. Leah and Lucas had shuffled to the side slightly, working their way through the candy floss silently with bemused expressions on their faces.

"Oh my days, the things people will queue for nowadays!" Cheryl bustled straight into the middle of the trio, oblivious to the atmosphere surrounding her. She handed Brendan a plastic glass with a double measure of whiskey in it, and he offered a prayer of thanks to the heavens.

"Hey Chez," Ste said gratefully, clearly keen for the distraction.

"Chez, great to see you," Ben smiled and touched his hand to Cheryl's fur clad arm. Brendan clamped his teeth together, grinding them painfully. This man being so familiar with his sister, calling her "Chez", was totally unacceptable to him. He sipped at his whiskey, restraining himself because there was a real temptation to drink it all in one go.

"Look who it is, a whole collection of Hays! How you doing guys?" Cheryl asked, smiling at the children in particular, darting wary eyes at Brendan as the awkwardness of the situation impressed itself.

"Cheryl, will you take us over to the rides?" Lucas asked, shy expression on his face. It seemed as though the boy hadn't inherited his father's personality as well as his looks.

"I can take you if you want Lucas mate," Ben said, trying to mask the irritation of not being first choice. As ever, Cheryl's first instinct was to diffuse the situation.

"Why don't we both go? That way you can tell me all about your latest exploits in Italy," she suggested, leaving Brendan wondering just how many times Cheryl had socialised with Ste and Ben over the past few weeks. Ben hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave Ste with Brendan.

"Go on," Ste said softly, "I'll catch you up."

"If you're sure," Ben said, kissing Ste lightly on the lips before walking away in step with Cheryl, who was already animatedly engaging him in conversation. The teenagers followed behind, arguing over who should have custody of the candy floss. Leah shot Brendan one last lingering look that he couldn't decipher. Once they were out of sight, Brendan found himself standing opposite Ste, bonfire warming his right cheek, the flames flickering over Ste's skin, illuminating it with an unnatural brightness. Brendan wanted to close the distance between them, to kiss the taste of the other man from Ste's lips, but he found himself rooted to the spot. The distance between them felt insurmountable. He reached for the cup in Ste's hand and took it from him, draining the wine in one go. It was lukewarm, teeth achingly sweet and astringent on the back of his throat.

"So... you need time, hmmm?" Brendan asked, aware that his skin was singing with anger. Ste shrugged a little helplessly.

"It's not that simple Brendan."

"Isn't it? Because from where I'm standing, and forgive me if I'm wrong Steven, but it seems like you're busy playing happy families with posh boy -"

"I'm not playing -"

"- And it seems like you have no intention of telling him anything," Brendan continued as though Ste hadn't spoken.

"What do you want me to tell him eh?" Ste asked, defensive tone pervading his words. Brendan shook his head, muttering "unbelievable" just loud enough for Ste to hear. Ste closed the gap between them, not wishing to cause a scene.

"No, go on Brendan, what would you like me to say to him? That I'm walking out on our life and the family we've built over years together because my ex boyfriend has rocked up out of prison and wants me back? Is that what you want?"

"Well -"

"He's been good to me, and he doesn't deserve this, right? I'm going to break his heart. We're going to break his heart."

Brendan looked into Ste's eyes and saw the reluctance and pain. A thought occurred to him that simply hadn't occurred before, and he cursed his own single mindedness.

"You still love him don't you?" Brendan murmured. He didn't need Ste to answer him, he could see the answer written on Ste's face, clear as day.

"He's a good man, and I'm going to hurt him. And I don't want to. That doesn't make me a bad person, alright?"

Brendan touched his cold fingers to the fire warmed heat of Ste's cheek, and Ste closed his eyes for a long moment, leaning into the touch. Brendan didn't want to be angry, certainly not with Ste, but it didn't matter what he wanted; the anger multiplied regardless. His mind was stewing over Leah's words, and he needed an answer.

"And Daddy Douglas?" Brendan said bitterly. Ste's eyes flicked open and he jerked away from Brendan's hand.

"What?" Ste asked, and Brendan sensed that he was stalling for time.

"You got back with him, didn't you?"

"Yeah, alright, I did, so what? Anyway it's not as if it lasted -"

Brendan groaned and rubbed his face with his hands in exasperation.

"Steven..."

"Ahhh, what Brendan? What's it got to do with you eh? You weren't there, were you? You made sure of it, so I don't have to apologise, to you of all people."

Ste's anger matched Brendan's now. It was rolling from him in waves, and he stormed off across the field, away from the crowds, into the darkness.

"Steven!" Brendan yelled, breaking into a jog to catch up with Ste's retreating figure. He reached out and grabbed Ste's arm to try and bring him to a stop. It worked, but perhaps not in the way Brendan had intended. Ste wheeled around to face him, dragging his arm out of the grip, a different type of fire reflected in his eyes now.

"You know what, you've got some fucking nerve. I'd never have been with Ben, or Doug, if you hadn't left me. You left me Brendan, not the other way round, so you don't get to act like the injured party here, right?"

Brendan flinched as though the words had physically hurt him. The bitterness pouring from Ste was almost repelling him. He backed away slightly, trying to escape the intensity of Ste's wrath.

"And we're back to this are we? So much for understanding that I was trying to do what was best for you."

"Yeah? Well, I guess it were easier to be forgiving when you were locked up and suffering in prison, weren't it."

"Wow, that's touching Steven, really."

Ste screwed his eyes up, a scowl making his normally porcelain angelic features seem monstrous.

"Why do you even care? When it's all in the past? What does it matter who I've been with, what difference does it make now, eh?"

How to answer any of these questions? For Brendan, it mattered, but explaining why was a very different story. He tried to speak, but found no words were forthcoming. Ste, clearly growing tired of Brendan's lack of explanation, sighed and shook his head.

"I'm not the problem here Brendan. You know it and I know it. I'm going to go back, spend the night with my family. Don't you dare try to follow me."

Brendan stood for a long time in the darkness, watching the bonfire from a distance. If he strained his eyes, he thought he might be able to see Ste laughing with Leah, Lucas and Cheryl, drinking mulled wine and telling Ben that he'd changed his mind, that he loved the taste of it now, just to spite Brendan. In that little family unit there would be smiles and laughter and warmth that had nothing to do with the bonfire. As the fireworks began, sending splashes of green and purple sparks into the clear night sky, Brendan walked away, back towards the village, ignoring the vibrating of the phone in his pocket, ignoring the niggling voice in his head which was telling him to go and apologise and make things right. When it came down to it, Brendan found self destruction much easier than contrition.


	22. Chapter 22

22.

 _It is raining, fairly heavily, streams and rivulets being created down the windows and facades of the building. Brendan stands next to the slightly ajar window, watching the downpour and breathing in the scent that the rain leaves in its wake, that oddly satisfying, earthy smell. Brendan wishes to be caught in a rainstorm. To feel the droplets drench his hair, to feel the chill filter through his clothes and pierce his skin, the damp permeating through the tightly meshed fibres of his shirt. He longs to feel discomfort like this. Longs to feel anything at all. He threads his hand through the gap of the opening, and twists his wrist so that his palm is turned upwards, catching the drops as they fall. This action makes him feel strangely at peace, and he wonders how long he might be allowed to remain in this position. A cough from behind him reminds Brendan that he isn't alone, and he slides his hand back through the window, marvelling at the moisture gathered in the creases. When he turns, Brendan sees that Mark is staring at him from his usual armchair._

 _"Are you okay Brendan?"_

 _Reluctantly, Brendan retreats from his position at the window, perching on the sofa that he habitually sits on._

 _"Don't you just love the rain doc?"_

 _"Hmmm? The rain?"_

 _Brendan picks up the box of jacks on the table in front of him and tips them out into his hand._

 _"Makes everything fresh, clean. Washes away the sins."_

 _Mark says nothing, writes something in his notebook. Brendan thinks it's probably the mention of sin - Mark seems to have a fascination with any hint of Brendan's spirituality. The jacks that are clenched in his fist are comforting, the bases press into his skin and leave their mark, like stigmata. He opens his fingers and examines the bundles of metal and the dents they have made in his palm. Brendan releases them onto the table; they land on the glass with a satisfying clatter. He feels Mark's eyes on him, and leans back into the sofa, spreading out his legs and running a hand through his beard thoughtfully._

 _"So what delights do you have in store for me today then doc?"_

 _Mark removes his glasses, balancing them on the arm of the chair._

 _"I'd like to pick up where we left off last time. We were discussing your marriage I believe. You were telling me about hiding your sexuality from Eileen and the challenges that presented."_

 _Mark has a way of making it sound as though Brendan freely dispensed with information, that he's endlessly eager to discuss his demons. Brendan taps on the cushion next to him absently._

 _"Not sure what else there is to say about that doc. Like I said, the last year of our marriage I spent mostly working away. Happiest time of my married life."_

 _"And then?"_

 _And then... Eileen had demanded he come back to Ireland, threatening divorce if he did not return from Liverpool. He had been in too much of a mess about Vinny's death to argue. Once home he had instead embarked upon an ill advised affair with Macca, who made his flesh crawl when Brendan was sober; thankfully much of that period in his life was spent under the influence of too much whiskey. And then what? Being confronted with the evidence of his indiscreet indiscretions. Hotel receipts. Messages arranging meetings on a previously undiscovered phone. Brendan had been sickeningly relieved when Eileen finally threw him out. It had felt right, like the universe was setting everything straight. Being punished: this was something Brendan understood._

 _He sees that Mark is awaiting a response._

 _"And then we split up. She was unhappy, I was unhappy. It was for the best. That's when I decided to go and stay with Chez."_

 _"How did your separation affect your children?"_

 _Brendan breathes in sharply, stupidly unprepared for the question. He squeezes his eyes shut to try and block out the incoming memory of Declan crying, of unpacking Brendan's bag as he had realised what he was doing, that he was leaving them again. Brendan remembers shouting at Declan to stop, Padraig standing in the doorway like a statue, mute but visibly anxious about his brother's distress. Brendan had hoped that Eileen would appear and scoop up the boys, take them away from the scene, but she had clearly determined to make it difficult for him, and so he was left trying to ignore his distraught son's attempts to sabotage his escape. He had to prise himself out of Declan's grip, with promises that it would be alright, that he would see them very soon. Such lies he had told. Brendan had been aware of it being a lie as the words left his lips, but he promised it anyway. It was to be months before Brendan saw his sons again, by which time Eileen was already involved with Michael. Brendan suspected that he had not been the only one in the marriage that had been in the throes of an affair, but he supposed he was hardly in a position to be judgemental._

 _"Honestly doc? I withdrew from their life, pretty much. It was the best thing for them."_

 _"What makes you say that?"_

 _Brendan thinks about his children, forces himself to recall their early years. He had tried when Declan was born, but he had only been eighteen years old, and he couldn't seem to get anything right. The spectre of his own childhood still loomed large and the intimate tasks of fatherhood were laced with fear and uncertainty. Nappies that he fastened fell straight off, food that he prepared went uneaten. Eileen, in contrast, had been a perfect model of motherhood, enrolling him in Sunday school and spending afternoons arms deep in craft materials. As Declan grew older, Brendan had minor successes, kicking a football despite his own personal hatred of the game, and holding the bicycle upright as his son learnt to retain his balance. By this point though Brendan was working in clubs and was more often absent than he was at home being a dutiful husband or father. His absence was supposed to be compensated with a second child. Eileen wanted another baby, and Brendan felt he could hardly refuse her, given the whole other life he was leading when away from the family. When Padraig was born Brendan was almost totally withdrawn. He didn't even attempt the nappies or feeding this time; Eileen did it all. There had been no kicking a ball or learning to ride a bike with Paddy._

 _After he left, Brendan had sent money for the boys sporadically, until Eileen sent a curt email requesting that he stop doing so after Declan's hospitalisation. His two attempts at reconciliation during his time with Steven had been tentatively successful, the boys wary but showing willing, prepared to give Brendan just one more chance._

 _It had been a brief respite. When he was arrested, Eileen had spoken with Cheryl and stated in no uncertain terms that the Bradys were not to have anything to do with Declan and Paddy, no matter what. For a while once Declan had turned eighteen, Brendan had held out a vague hope that he might get in contact, but he never did._

 _Brendan raises an eyebrow at Mark, tapping his fingers in agitation._

 _"What makes me say that? Because I was a terrible father."_

 _Mark's face has an expression of sympathy on it, and Brendan feels angry. If there's one thing he doesn't deserve, it's sympathy. He picks up two of the jacks from the table, turns them over repeatedly in the cocoon of his hand._

 _"It's quite simple doc. I married their mother for the wrong reasons. To look like the big man, to prove that I was someone I wasn't. And then I spent their whole childhoods running away from the situation I'd engineered for myself, because I **wasn't** the big man, and I **couldn't** prove it. I wasted years of my life; years of Eileen's life pretending, letting her hope that I'd change, and that things would be different. She didn't stand a chance. My boys didn't stand a chance. They didn't deserve me as a father. I didn't deserve to be a father."_

 _"Once you'd separated though, and you came out, couldn't you have tried again? To be the father they deserved, as you put it?"_

 _Images flash through Brendan's mind of reading to two small children until they fell asleep. Of dressing them for nursery and school, the process taking an unnecessarily long time because one of them resolutely refused to put their socks on. Of serving dinner, which had been left labelled in the fridge, because even though many things had changed Brendan still could not be trusted with kitchen equipment. An ache spreads through his chest. This gut wrenching pain is why he tries not to think about Leah and Lucas. He tries not to torture himself with thoughts of introducing Declan and Padraig to them, of him and Steven creating a united family, of sorts. Brendan tries, but sometimes he fails and the images invade his mind anyway, making him yearn for the happily ever after he so nearly had._

"So close..."

 _"I - I tried..."_

 _Mark leans forward in his chair, arms folded over his knees, curious._

 _"And? What happened?"_

 _Brendan gives Mark his most manic smile to block out the grief._

 _"I ruined it all by murdering my father doc."_

 _Mark does not try to hide his eye roll, or his counting to ten techniques._

 _"You know, hiding behind your bravado won't work forever Brendan."_

 _Brendan throws the jacks from his hands, watches them skitter across the glass noisily._

 _"Perhaps not. It's appropriate in this case though."_

 _"How so?"_

 _Brendan points at the ceiling._

 _"The Bible says 'the son shall not suffer for the iniquity of the father.' Especially when the father in question 'practiced extortion, robbed his brother and did what is not good among his people'."_

 _"And what do you take that to mean?"_

 _"I'd have thought that was obvious doc, but let me spell it out for you. The boys shouldn't be made to suffer because of the misfortune of having me as a da. Strikes me as the best thing, me being wiped from their history."_

 _"Okay Brendan."_

 _Mark's expression and tone suggest he is unconvinced. Brendan is about to stand up, about to leave, about to escape this hellish conversation, but Mark puts a hand out to stop him._

 _"Just a second. Let me ask you this. Is this connected with your experiences with your own father?"_

 _Yes._

 _"What do you mean doc?"_

 _"Well, if the Bible does in fact say that, then isn't it just as valid for you? Should you be made to suffer for the things your father did? Do you need to punish yourself forevermore because of it?"_

 _Brendan's face hardens, stone cold glacial eyes staring just to the side of Mark's face, because he does not trust himself to look at him, is not sure what he would do if he did. Splatters of blood cloud his vision momentarily._

 _"I'll be paying penance for the things I've done for the rest of my life, doc. My father has got nothing to do with it," Brendan says, lips curled upwards into a snarl. This time when he gets up to leave, Mark does not try to stop him._

* * *

Somewhere nearby, birds were singing, and a soft soothing rainfall pattered on the leaves of surrounding trees. Brendan felt the rain on his cheek, and it was welcome. He remembered telling someone how much he loved the rain - who was it? The bird song faded; in its place was the lilting sound of Lynsey singing.

 _"I am stretched on your grave, and I'll lie here forever..."_

A smile ghosted on Brendan's lips. Lynsey had such a beautiful voice. She didn't realise it, in fact if she was ever caught in song she would stop instantly, but seemingly not this time.

 _"When my family think that I'm safely in my bed, oh from morn until night I am stretched at your head..."_

Brendan opened his eyes, as he had only just realised that they were in fact closed. His body was pressed into the fragrant grass, his leather coat not an adequate protector from the chill. Raindrops continued to fall on his upturned cheek; the other was resting on the ground. Where was he? And where was Lynsey?

 _"Oh the priests and the friars, they approach me in dread, oh for love of you still, oh my life, and you're dead. I still will be your shelter, through rain and through storm, and with you in your cold grave, I can not sleep warm..."_

A low rumbling of thunder sounded overhead and Brendan tried to sit up, but found he was numb from the cold, making it a more difficult task than one might have thought. Just in his eyeline he could see the spire of his childhood church, and the sight calmed him. He reached out and grabbed a nearby solid surface, pulling himself so that he was sitting upright, running his hands over the glistening granite that had acted as a crutch. The smooth edges of the stone were pleasing to touch and he ran his hands over the carefully cut top reverently. The tips of his fingers collected moisture from where the rain had gathered in the grooves.

 _"So I am stretched on your grave, and I'll lie here forever, if your hands were in mine I'd be sure they would not sever..."_

Her song rang like a church bell in his ears, yet he still could not see Lynsey anywhere. Brendan leant his already damp cheek against the cold gravestone, breathing in the soothing smell of the churchyard. He remembered telling someone how much he loved the rain - who was it? Idly he traced the lettering on the grave, not wanting to move from this spot.

 _"My apple tree, my brightness, it's time we were together, for I smell of the earth and I'm worn by the weather..."_

Another crackle of thunder sounded, this time with an accompanying flash of lightning. A feeling of dread suddenly settled in Brendan's belly. He sat upright and examined the markings of the grave. This time his fingers ran over them in disbelief. His stomach swooped and dipped unpleasantly, and Brendan fell on to his hands and knees, digging his fingers into the damp ground desperately, dirt burrowing under his fingernails. Thunder rumbled once more, and Brendan realised that the rain on his face was now intermingled with tears. A roar of grief threatened to force its way out of Brendan's throat, but no sound would come out.

Brendan bolted upright, a strained, agonised howl released itself into the still air of the bedroom against his will. Sweat was settled on his brow, his heart was racing. Brendan tried to suck in some deep breaths in an attempt to regain control. His hand gripped at the cross on his chest, a reassuringly solid object for his unsettled mind.

"Brendan, are you alright?"

An arm that might have been meant as comforting threaded around his shoulders, rendering him instead as unable to move, suffocating and claustrophobic. He looked into Mark's anxious face through the darkness and he let out a shaky noise that was meant as a reassuring one. Mark's hand settled on his back, and Brendan visibly flinched, though he hadn't meant to. His head was pounding after the surge of adrenaline, and he was struggling to remember how he had arrived in Mark's bed in the first place.

"I'm just going to... bathroom," Brendan muttered, gesturing to the door and swinging his legs out of bed, bending down to retrieve his phone from his trouser pocket.

"Do you need anything?" Mark asked, and Brendan felt irrationally angry at the question. He took some deep breaths, just like the good doctor had taught him to.

"No... nothing," Brendan whispered and left the room, fumbling on the wall outside for the light switch. Mark lived in a beautiful terraced house with too many rooms and nonsensical and archaic plumbing arrangements. The bathroom was at the opposite end of the corridor to the bedroom; once he had found it Brendan went in and closed the door softly. He stood at the basin and splashed cold water all over his face, wiping away the perspiration that had gathered there. Staring at his reflection in the large gilt mirror above the sink, Brendan attempted to gather his thoughts into some semblance of order. He had had a nightmare because he was not at home and he had not taken any of his tablets. Nothing abnormal about that. The argument with Ste crystallised in his mind once more. Brendan could see and feel the anger as though it was happening all over again. He pressed his eyes shut, but when he did so the haunting melody from his nightmare revisited him and Brendan hastily reopened them to try and put an end to the echoes. There were dark shadows the colour of bruises around his eyes; evidence of bad dreams that water simply could not wash away. His phone was on the surface next to the sink, and Brendan picked it up, scrolling through his missed calls and messages from his sister. She had given up relatively quickly by Cheryl's standards, but her last message had been in the form of a video that he had ignored at the time, along with the rest. He opened it now and almost immediately wished he hadn't. She had captioned it with the words "missing you", and he felt his eyes prickle uncomfortably, watching Ste and Leah teaching Lucas to draw hearts in the night air with his sparkler, his face shining with a mixture of focus and joy. Leah swirled and twirled the sparks into shapes effortlessly, writing her name with a flourish, laughter punctuating her actions. Brendan watched Ste spell out Lucas, his tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration. Lucas looked delighted, and Cheryl let out a cheer from behind the camera. Ste looked straight at the camera then, triumphant, but with a hint of the self consciousness that Brendan knew accompanied any task that incorporated spelling. He paused the video and studied Ste's face. An almost overpowering sense of regret flooded through him as he stood staring into Ste's smiling eyes. There was no residual anger left over from their earlier encounter, only the memory of it, like a reverberation of sound in a high ceilinged room.

There was a quiet knock on the door, and after a moment Mark slipped into the room, clad in a t shirt and boxer shorts. Brendan didn't move from his position at the sink, and Mark edged closer to him warily.

"You've been in here for quite a while. I wanted to check you were okay."

No, he wasn't okay at all, nothing was okay, but Brendan could hardly say that. Mark gestured to the phone in Brendan's hand, still frozen on the frame of Ste looking into the camera.

"What's that you're looking at?"

Brendan flicked the video to the beginning and relinquished the phone, no longer able to summon the energy to hide anything. Happiness and its corresponding sounds radiated from the screen, and Brendan turned his head a little to try and block it out, but it was no use. He didn't need to see the video again for it to replay in front of him. Mercifully it was a short clip and before long the bathroom was silent once more. Mark sighed and put the phone on to the counter, running a hand through his sleep ruffled hair and taking a seat on the edge of the bath.

"So... why weren't you with them? Why are you here instead?"

Brendan folded his arms across his bare chest in a protective gesture, and rubbed one foot on top of the other.

"I was there, but..."

"But?" Mark pressed.

"I had a... disagreement that left me wanting to spend the rest of my evening elsewhere."

"You argued? Who with?"

Brendan sighed and ducked his head. Ste's blazing eyes lit by the bonfire were vivid in his mind.

"Doesn't matter."

"It was Steven wasn't it?"

Brendan looked up at Mark, surprised at his intuition. He tried to affect nonchalance.

"What makes you say that doc?"

Mark laughed humourlessly and rubbed his face with his hands, an action that was usually more characteristic of Brendan.

"Because you wouldn't have turned up here after a row with Cheryl I suppose."

"Very perceptive."

The two men stood for a while in silence. Mark was considering Brendan with shortsighted and weary eyes.

"Do you have a lot of nightmares?"

"What's this doc? Not trying to squeeze in an opportunity to analyse me are you? Normally have to make an appointment for that particular pleasure."

"Brendan, it's gone three in the morning, I'm tired, just answer the question."

"I have them often enough."

"What about?"

"Lots of things," Brendan shrugged, but seeing the look of exasperation on Mark's face he sighed and decided to play nicely.

"Most of them I have again and again. The one tonight was... see, I'm in the churchyard back home, and it's raining. Always raining. And at first it's a good dream, because it's my childhood church and Lynsey's singing..."

Brendan drifted back into the dreamscape, reliving the thing, the dread of the cemetery poured in on him as though he was actually back there in the depths of sleep.

"But then I notice I'm cold. That I'm lying on the ground, and that the ground I'm lying on is a grave. And the gravestone..."

Brendan's voice broke at this, and he blinked himself out of the trance he had fallen into. He was still in Mark's bathroom, in the warmth and relative safety of a house in Chester, no longer in Ireland in the middle of a storm.

"The grave belongs to someone?" Mark asked quietly. Brendan cleared his throat and sniffed loudly, airways suddenly feeling constricted. The grave frightened him immeasurably.

"Whose name is on the stone?"

"Stevens..." Brendan choked out, stray hysterical tear escaping down his cheek, "it's Stevens."

* * *

Much later that morning Brendan headed to the club. He liked to check in early when he had taken a night off, not that those happened very often. As he approached the door to his office he caught the odour of rust and rot, and paused with his hand on the handle. Brendan almost turned around; he wasn't sure he had the energy to deal with the anatagonistic presence of Walker this morning. Nevertheless he took a deep breath and stepped into the room beyond. Sure enough, Walker was there, his limbs stretched along the length of the couch, cheshire cat grin on his pallid face.

"Morning boss."

"I'm not your boss Walker," Brendan muttered, steering around the sofa to lean against his desk. With his head in his hands, Brendan wondered if this was another nightmare he could wake up from. But no, regrettably he knew he was wide awake, and that all the evidence pointed to him losing his mind. The strands of reality were slipping through his grasping desperate fingers, try though he did to hold on.

"Oh don't be like that. Did you get out of the wrong side of someone's bed this morning?"

This was not part of the plan. Brendan should have gone back to the flat first, changed his clothes, taken his medication, had a nap. He was wired, heart fluttering erratically, and the bottle of whiskey on the sideboard looked extraordinarily tempting. No.

"Fancy a coffee Walker? On me of course."

Walker was momentarily blindsided by the change of tack, an expression of surprise colouring his features. Brendan grabbed his wallet and keys, pretending to smack his forehead in mock remembrance.

"Ah, of course, ghosts don't drink coffee. Silly me. Whatever you do, don't go floating off while I'm gone, alright?"

"Brady!"

Brendan smirked as he left the office, realising that ghost baiting was likely to be the highlight of his day. His small moment of triumph was interrupted when he bumped, quite literally, into Cheryl. He smiled a false smile in the wake of her shocked little shriek at colliding with her brother.

"Alright Chez? I'm heading for a coffee, do you want one?"

"No - er, Bren, were you talking to someone just now?" she asked with a frown creasing her forehead.

"Myself. Only way to be sure of intelligent conversation," Brendan called as he disappeared down the stairs and out of the side door. After a minute's deliberation, Brendan made a beeline for the Olive Press. He would make Steven talk to him, he would apologise, even grovel if need be...

Or he would have done, if Ste had been there. As it happened, the girl behind the counter smiled politely when asked but reported that Mr Hay was taking the morning off to spend time with his kids.

"Such a lovely family," she said as she busied herself with Brendan's order. He grunted noncomitally. Obviously this girl, who had seen him frequenting the place regularly, assumed Brendan would agree with her observation, but in Ste's absence he didn't feel like indulging her.

Brendan climbed the steps back up to the bar, where he found Cheryl waiting for her, a much more welcome sight than Walker. He sat next to her, depositing a hazelnut latte down on the low table opposite her.

"I said I didn't want one."

Brendan slouched down into the corner of the sofa, blowing on his coffee with a pout on his face.

"It's shite anyway," he grumbled petulantly. The coffee had had no chance of meeting with his approval when Brendan realised that Ste would not be making it.

"Oh, well in that case, cheers Bren," Cheryl retorted sarcastically. She picked up the warm container anyway and regarded Brendan over it.

"Just spit it out Chez will you?"

"Where did you go last night? I was phoning you and messaging you and -"

"You were alright weren't you?"

"Well - yes, but... we were supposed to be doing something together."

Cheryl had never been good with Brendan's unpredicatability, because if Cheryl said she was going to do something, then she would do it, she would be there. Cheryl was reliable. This thought made something occur to Brendan.

"Did you know Chez? About Steven and Douglas?"

"What about them?" Cheryl asked, but it was unconvincing and her expression told Brendan everything he needed to know.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Cheryl's eyes darted about uneasily and she placed her coffee back down.

"How could I tell you? You were hardly in a good place back then Bren, don't you remember? And I'm honestly not sure what good it would have done."

The early days of Brendan's incarceration were like a fog. He had spent his days in withdrawn interminable misery, cutting off everyone who cared for him, Brendan selecting his own punishment in addition to the one handed out by the court. He didn't talk to anyone unless he had to, he barely ate; in truth, he barely existed. He remembered what had happened to break the cycle, but this was not the time to rake through that again.

"You could've told me since then Chez."

"I thought about it. But I wasn't sure what difference it made, what with Ste being with Ben, I just... I didn't know what difference it would make to you Bren."

Cheryl appeared to be genuine, symapthy etched into her eyes.

"So tell me now."

Cheryl went to speak, then hesitated.

"What do you want to know?"

Brendan closed his eyes and considered it. Why _did_ he want to know and what good _would_ it do? His sister was right, but when it came down to it, Brendan was particularly fond of torturing himself with information he didn't want to hear, like scratching an irritating itch until it bled.

"How long?"

Cheryl took a deep breath as if bracing herself.

"About a year after you went away."

"That's not what I asked."

"Doug moved away about... five years ago? So it was over by then."

Four years. Brendan felt sick. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a low groan. Cheryl squeezed his knee in a placatory gesture.

"If it makes you feel any better babe, I never got the impression that they made each other very happy. Probably would've been better if they'd just stayed as friends."

"Mmmm..." Brendan grunted.

"When Doug went it was like a weight lifting. Ste was so much happier..."

"When he met posh boy you mean? That about the time yeah?"

"Bren, I know you don't want to hear this, but... he's not a bad guy. And if Ste's decided to stay with him -"

Brendan sat bolt upright at that, studying Cheryl intently, cutting through her dialogue abruptly.

"Is that what he told you?"

"Well I assumed... is there something you're not telling me love?"

Plenty, Brendan thought miserably. The penny had clearly dropped for Cheryl however without his saying anything, because her eyes had widened as though she couldn't believe her own short sightedness.

"There's something going on between you isn't there."

It wasn't phrased as a question.

"Not after last night," Brendan said, sounding a little more on the side of devestated than intended.

"So that's why you left last night. You two had a row. About Doug?"

"Among other things," Brendan muttered, holding his head in his hands. He realised in a way he hadn't properly comprehended before, that there was a real possibility of Ste staying with Ben. Of him choosing the life he had led comfortably and securely for years before Brendan's interference, despite the evident feelings between them. Cheryl was shaking her head, eyes directed at the ceiling.

"He told me it had stopped," she said, seemingly to herself, but Brendan's ears pricked up.

"Who? You mean Steven?"

"Aye. He told me because I guessed before you ask. He said he was going to work on you two just being friends. And if that's what he decides he wants Bren, I'm sorry but you have to respect that."

Brendan suspected that Cheryl wasn't equipped with the full story, because otherwise she would have been a lot more angry. The morning had already left him with a feeling of exhaustion, but just as he was about to get up and head back to the office, Cheryl grabbed his arm, looking at him critically.

"So where did you go last night Bren? You never answered me. You're still in the same clothes."

Brendan noticed Walker leaning nonchalantly on the doorframe to the office, smug snakelike grin on his face and raising eyebrows at Cheryl's question. Brendan wished everyone, dead or alive, would just leave him alone. He could hardly muster the energy to lie, but lie he must.

"Slept here. Didn't fancy the walk home."

Cheryl raised her eyebrows too.

"Despite your belief to the contrary, drowning yourself in whiskey won't solve everything you know."

"Really? Shit, what have I been doing with my life?" Brendan said, voice heavy with irony, and Cheryl smacked his arm playfully.

"Hey, I'm your sister and I'm trying to help. Why don't you go home Bren, have a shower and something to eat. It'll do you good."

Brendan thought about protesting, but then he looked into Cheryl's eyes and saw affection but also worry. She wanted him to be better, to be happy, to look after himself so that she didn't have to. That sort of care shouldn't be underestimated, he thought. Brendan kissed Cheryl firmly on the forehead, nodding a little and picking up his keys from where he had deposited them on the table. A good hot shower and perhaps just a small whiskey were in order.

Cheryl watched her brother go; only once he was out of the building did she let her smile drop. Cheryl knew when Brendan was lying - he used to be so adept at it, but years in isolation had dulled his skill and made him rusty. His face betrayed him in a way it never used to. Cheryl had a suspicion about where he had been, and she was more determined than ever to put a stop to it.

* * *

 **A/N: Lynsey's song is 'I am Stretched on your Grave' - a translation of an anonymous 17th-century Irish poem titled "Táim sínte ar do thuama".**


	23. Chapter 23

23.

The streets of York were lit up, window displays full to the brim with Christmas decorations, shops gearing up for an influx of festive shoppers. It was another cold but clear day, and tourists milled about taking photographs of buildings in their hats, scarves and thick wooly coats.

Brendan, having worked his way through the labyrinth of picturesque streets, stood in the square staring up at the York Minster. His only concession to the cold was a hooded top underneath his leather jacket; even Brendan, who was normally immune to the weather, was considering heading to the shops to buy himself a warmer coat. The gothic structure towered above him, imposing in its sheer scale. Brendan sidestepped a group of enthusiastic Chinese tourists and made his way up the steps and inside. The interior was equally expansive, and if he was honest, not that much warmer than it was outside. After paying the entrance fee Brendan wandered through to the vast main chamber, slowly circling on the spot to take it all in. The deep sense of peace that washed over him when in a religious building made him feel instantly calmer; the serene atmosphere of the arches and the stained glass windows only adding to the effect. Proceeding further into a smaller chapel, Brendan found a display of candles and tapers with which to light them. He deposited some coins into a collection box and lit a candle for Lynsey, lingering for a long while in prayer.

Afterwards, Brendan took a seat in one of the pews facing the altar, looking at but not really seeing the intricacies of the stained glass scene built into the chancel. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and he rummaged in his jacket to retrieve it. There were two messages in his inbox; the most recent one was from Joel, telling him he was 'outside the big church' and asking where Brendan was. The second earlier message was from Anne: "be nice to Joel, he's littler than you." The little smiling faces that he supposed were meant to be teasing made him frown and grumble to himself about grown women behaving like children.

As Brendan exited the building he scanned the square for Joel, before catching sight of him sitting on the steps, wrapped in a thick wool pea coat.

"You could've come in Joel, you wouldn't have melted stepping over the threshold," Brendan said as he approached him. Joel pulled himself up and dusted off the back of his coat. He screwed his face up at Brendan's words.

"I'm not paying to go into a church Brendan," Joel moaned, and Brendan couldn't help but smirk at his words.

"Ever the Scotsman."

Glaring at Brendan, Joel began to walk.

"Come on, let's move, it's fucking freezing just stood here."

The two men circled the Minster, dodging tourists taking selfies, hands stuffed resolutely in their coat pockets in the absence of gloves. They came to a park behind the square and Brendan silently led the way through.

"So, you going to tell me what this is about? Much as I'm enjoying this little day trip, I'm guessing you didn't ask me to meet you just for a nice walk around the park."

Brendan fell into step beside Joel.

"I want you to tell me what happened to Foxy."

Joel's head snapped up to look at Brendan, surprise evident in the movement.

"Warren?"

"We can call him daddy if you prefer."

"Why the sudden interest?" Joel asked, ignoring Brendan's jibe. Brendan laughed humourlessly and rubbed the cold stubble on his cheek.

"You know what Joel? You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Joel eyed Brendan suspiciously, but after a moment shrugged.

"Drink driving. Took out another car at the same time. His car went straight into a tree pretty much head on. Killed instantly."

"And you saw the body?"

"Jesus Brendan. Yes I saw it. I had to as it happened. Took them a while to identify him, because the car wasn't his, and he didn't have his wallet on him, so no ID."

"But it _was_ him?"

Joel stopped in front of Brendan, frown of confusion on his face.

"Brendan what's this about?"

How was he supposed to answer that?

"Just answer the question Joel."

"Yes, okay? Yes. They didn't just take my word for it. It doesn't work like that. They had stuff on file for him because of prison. Fingerprints or something like that. Is that what you're asking? That it was definitely Warren and not some other poor sod dragged into one of his schemes?"

Brendan motioned for Joel to continue walking, disturbing a flock of pigeons gathered on the path, wings fluttering wildly as they took off. The movement and Joel's words, rather than putting Brendan's mind at rest, had created a sickening pool of anxiety in his mind. Joel seemed to sense this, because he put a hand on Brendan's arm, causing the other man to flinch.

"The police must have all that info Brendan. You know, if you need to be sure."

Brendan nodded, patted Joel's arm as an indication to let go, but his heart was still thumping erratically.

"Okay. It's okay."

"I don't know where this has come from, but I wouldn't lie about this, not after everything with Theresa."

"Theresa?"

"Do you not know?"

"Chez told me..."

"Yeah but did she tell you how she... what happened?"

Brendan thought, or tried to think, back to Cheryl telling him, but a thick fog covered the conversation in his memory. It had happened too early in his incarceration for him to have a clear recollection. Joel gestured to a bench a few metres away and they headed down the path to take a seat, Brendan blowing inside his cupped hands for some warmth. Joel was staring into the distance in the direction of the Minster, but Brendan suspected he wasn't actually looking at anything. His eyes were cold with slate and glass; Joel was in another place and time, trying to remain impartial and unaffected by whatever horror lay there.

"We'd been at a house party. Had a few drinks. Well, more than a few. We argued - it's funny, I can't even remember what about now. We were always arguing. My mate decided to drive us back, and she got in the front next to him, trying to rub my nose in it and make me jealous."

Brendan could see where the story was heading, could almost hear the crunch of the collision and the shattering of glass; could almost taste the petrol fumes and the tang of blood. Joel had not moved, trapped in his own private hell.

"I always used to tell her to put her seatbelt on, because she never did, bad habit she'd got into. She used to accuse me of being an old man, of worrying too much, but she used to put it on when I asked all the same. But that night we'd argued, so I never."

A single tear dropped down Joel's cheek, and Brendan bowed his head, thinking about Theresa and her gaudy, headstrong demeanour. What an awful, senseless ending. When Brendan looked back towards Joel, the tear had been wiped away. Joel darted a glance at Brendan, then swiftly looked away again, but that split second was enough to see the pain residing behind Joel's eyes.

"The rest of us escaped with bruises and a few scrapes. She went straight through the windscreen. It was quick, that's what they told me. I guess that was supposed to make it better..."

"Joel..."

"You know what though? In a way, it made me realise how important it is to keep the people you love close. What is it that they say? Never go to bed on an argument. It's so true."

"It's a cliché," Brendan said, without really meaning to. Joel smirked a little.

"It's a true cliché Brendan. You should make up with Ste."

Brendan laughed and shook his head. The women in his life were the biggest gossips he had ever met.

"Which little bird told you that eh Little Foxy?"

"Mitzeee. She said you needed a bit of encouragement."

"That girl's got a big mouth."

"I wouldn't knock it. You have people who care about you Brendan. I don't know what's going on with you, but I _do_ know that obsessing about Warren and the past only ever leads to trouble. Don't shut people out, that's all I'm saying."

A large group on a guided tour in matching jackets made their way past them, cameras flashing and exclamations of excitement travelling through the peace of the park. Brendan and Joel sat quietly in the midst of the chaos, sussing each other out.

"Warren?"

"Is gone," Joel said firmly, and Brendan found himself believing him.

"Okay," he said, nodding and letting out a long breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Joel nudged Brendan's arm gently.

"Come on, let's go get a drink."

* * *

The door intercom sounded just as Brendan was buttoning his pale blue shirt cuff. He sighed irritably and moved out into the living room, turning on lights as he did so, as it had grown dark while he had been taking a shower and getting changed. What he saw on the screen was a surprise, and he paused for a moment, before huffing out a laugh and pressing the button to release the entrance door. He ran a hand through his freshly styled hair nervously, jumping a little at the knock at the door despite it being expected. Brendan pulled the handle and stood in the doorway. Leah was standing in the hall, a large shoebox held awkwardly under her arm. She smiled hesitantly, shifting the weight of the box on her hip.

"Hi... sorry to disturb you..."

"You're not," Brendan said quickly, and some of the tension in Leah's stance eased.

"So... do you mind if I come in for a bit?"

Brendan nodded and moved out of the way, holding the heavy fire door open for Leah to enter. He followed her into the living area, watching her as she took in her surroundings. Placing the box on top of the kitchen island, Leah turned to face Brendan, who had paused in the centre of the room, hands in his trouser pockets. She seemed at a loss for what to do next. Brendan cleared his throat and nodded at the kitchen.

"You want a drink or something?"

Leah smiled gratefully.

"Please," she said and Brendan took that as his cue to open the fridge, crouching down next to it. The situation inside it was not promising.

"Beer?" Brendan asked, holding a bottle out questioningly. Leah laughed in a way that reminded Brendan powerfully of Ste.

"You don't have a lot of experience with kids do you?" she asked, with something teasing in her tone.

"How did you guess?" he replied, a slight smile on his face.

"I'll just have water. Not sure how well my dad's ex plying me with alcohol would go down."

Brendan grabbed a glass from the draining rack and filled it at the sink, letting the water run for a moment.

"Does your da know you're here?" Brendan asked as he deposited the glass on the counter in front of Leah. She rolled her eyes a little, putting her petite hands around the glass but not moving it to her lips.

"No, course not."

"Well, not that I'm not pleased to see you, because I am, but how did you find out where I lived?"

Leah blushed a little, spread of rose tint across her lightly freckled cheeks.

"This is one of Uncle Tony's flats."

"Mmhmm."

"Cheryl mentioned you lived here. I just had to find the flat number, so when me and Lucas were over at Tony's the other day, I had a quick look in his office. Your rental agreement was near the top, I didn't have to go snooping," Leah said, sounding both defensive and a little proud of herself at the same time. Brendan smirked, impressed despite himself. He could just imagine Tony's response to Leah's little investigation. He leant against the counter, arms folded.

"So to what do I owe that intriguing amount of effort?"

Leah looked uncomfortable, and began twirling a strand of silky blonde hair around her fingers.

"The other night... I couldn't really say too much with dad and Ben there..."

"Okay," Brendan prompted in what he hoped was an encouraging tone, because Leah seemed to be unsure of how to continue.

"The thing is... well, I remember you. Better than I said I did."

"Okay," Brendan repeated, but inside he felt his heart leap a little.

"You... you used to read me stories," she said quietly, and Brendan saw her hastily wipe a tear away. Brendan thought about moving towards Leah, comforting her. But he was unsure, at a loss as to what to do for the best. Leah was not five years old anymore, she couldn't be scooped up and reassured as she could be then.

"I did, yes," Brendan said, smiling warmly at Leah. She smiled in turn, and another tear fell from her eye, but this time she did not try to hide it.

"You did all the voices," she said with a teary little laugh. He went across to the lounge, grabbing a box of tissues from one of the side tables, and returned to Leah, putting the box next to her. She pulled one out of the box, blowing her nose delicately with it. Brendan pulled out the stools at the counter and took a seat, motioning for Leah to do the same.

"Oh god, I'm sorry, how embarrassing am I. Don't know what came over me," she said, dabbing at her eyes, redness and spidery smudges of mascara making Leah look somehow younger.

"It's fine. The past has a way of doing that to you sometimes."

"Thanks. Lucas doesn't remember. He was too young, so I can't talk to him about it. The day mum came to get us, dad was so upset. I'll never forget that look on his face."

"Do you know why your mum came to get you?"

Leah's face scrunched up in the effort of recalling the memory.

"No. But I know the next time we visited, you were gone and dad was broken."

Guilt ebbed through Brendan's veins at all times, but Leah's word choice was particularly jarring. He tried not to imagine Ste broken, how bad it must have been for Leah to describe it in that way.

"Leah... I never would have left your da if I could have helped it. Please believe that."

Leah nodded, sniffed and played with the glass in front of her shuffling it across the counter's surface with her fingers. She risked darting a look at Brendan's face.

"You went to prison. That's what happened right?"

"Yes," Brendan said quietly. He didn't see the point of lying, or of trying to trivialise it with excuses.

"Did you do something bad?" Leah said warily, as though she was frightened of the answer.

"Yes," Brendan's voice was barely a whisper now, the admission surprisingly painful. He bent his head, feeling shame, imagining blood dripping from his sinful hands.

"But you're not a bad person."

Leah tentatively put her hand out, touching Brendan's forearm gently. The gesture made Brendan's heart hurt. He placed his own hand on top of Leah's, squeezing in a demonstration of the affection he felt for the little girl who had stolen his heart when she was just five years old.

"What makes you say that sweetheart?"

"My dad loves you, that must mean something. Besides, no one who did all the voices could ever be all bad."

They smiled at one another then, understanding and remnants of fondness ready to be knitted together, to be made new. Brendan released Leah's hand and cleared his throat.

"I did a lot of stupid things before you and Lucas and your da came along. If I'd have known..."

Brendan thought about Danny Houston, about Walker. The drugs, the gambling, the beatings. His soul had been so full of darkness.

"If you'd have known?" Leah prompted, anchoring Brendan back in the present. He offered her a regretful smile.

"Well, let's just say I'd have done things differently."

"You still could. Do things differently I mean. I could help you," Leah said, and her eyes contained a hopeful gleam that Brendan barely recognised.

"What are you talking about?" Brendan asked, Leah's hope allowing a tiny amount to bubble to the surface for him too.

"I know you still love dad," she said, and Brendan frowned, his fingers itching for the feel of a whiskey glass in his hands. Instead, he settled for a beer, pulling one out of the fridge hastily and sitting back down next to Leah, who watched him carefully with no words. After a long swig, Brendan put the bottle down, but found he still had no response.

"How did you -"

"It was so obvious the other night. You could cut the tension with a knife," Leah said with an eye roll, as though it was completely apparent to her and everyone else for that matter. Brendan considered his next words carefully.

"Don't you like Ben?"

"He's great but... you have no one in your corner. I want to be in your corner."

"Why? I can't have been _that_ good at doing the voices."

"Because... well, I'm a teenager aren't I. I'm a sucker for a doomed romance."

"Doomed? Excellent."

Leah tutted and shrugged awkwardly.

"You know what I mean. Anyway, that's why I brought this," she said, gesturing at the shoe box next to her. Brendan lifted his beer back to his lips.

"Not to sound too Irish, but it's bad luck to put shoes on the table... no matter how nice the Doc Martens are," Brendan said flippantly. Leah's face altered and suddenly her wide eyes and pursed mouth reminded Brendan of her mother more than ever. Leah pulled the box towards her, sliding it over the counter until it was between her and Brendan. She took the lid off and discarded it. When Brendan saw its contents he was stunned, feeling a little sickened at the sight.

Row upon row of letter. Paper stacked untidily together, fraying and tearing at the grubby corners. Brendan pulled a handful out of its case carefully, examining the torn envelopes and tracing his own name with the most delicate of touches. The 'return to sender' stamp on each was a dangerous blot of red in the expanse of prison stamps. The envelopes were all open, in differing conditions, and Brendan looked at Leah questioningly. She shook her head fiercely, seemingly understanding Brendan's thought process.

"I didn't open them - they were like this when I found them, okay?"

"No, not okay Leah. Where did you get these from?"

"When dad moved into his new flat, my room was the one with the entrance to the attic storage. I wanted to see if there was anything from the old owners. Turns out that dad kept some interesting stuff of his own."

"These are all -"

"Open, I know. Like I said, not me. I found them like this, and then I read them. Which I'm guessing looking at the envelopes was something you didn't do?"

Brendan touched the frayed edges of the envelope, itching to pull out the contents. His mind flashed back to the early days of prison, the agony of isolation, of letters landing on his bed that were destined not to be opened. There were so many of them, all bundled up together. Another handful removed from the box. Brendan's name was written so carefully over them all, in differing shades of pen.

"There's so many..."

Leah nodded, picking up one of them and turning it over, examining the date stamp.

"So many. They weren't in any order, it took me ages to sort through them."

"And you've read them all?"

Leah nodded, sympathy etched on her face. Brendan knew his face must be betraying his own pain. The agony of leaving the letters unopened, of sending them back in a procession of heartbreak hit Brendan as if it was all happening just yesterday. Here they were, a long drawn out soliloquy of Ste's words to a silent and resisting audience.

"I don't understand why you kept sending them back. At first I thought you must not have loved dad anymore. But when I saw you the other night it was clear you still do. So why did you keep sending them back?"

Brendan rubbed his temples, trying to dislodge the headache that had formed there. He had had noble intentions in the beginning, but as the letters kept coming it had become an exercise in willpower, not to mention yet another method of self flagellation. He wasn't sure how to explain these complexities to the fifteen year old girl in front of him.

"It's complicated Leah. I thought it was best for your da. I never stopped thinking about him."

"Read them now Brendan. You should read them. Then you might understand what dad was feeling."

Brendan nodded, realising that the hands holding the letters were trembling. Leah stood up then. Brendan wasn't ready for her to leave, but he didn't have the words to stop her.

"You know, we read Romeo and Juliet at school, and I've read like a thousand romance novels. But none of that was like reading these. This... it's real, isn't it."

After seeing Leah out, Brendan did three things. Firstly, he called Stuart and told him that he wouldn't be in. Secondly, he grabbed a whiskey bottle and glass from the kitchen counter and moved them to the coffee table. Finally, Brendan gathered up the letters and the shoebox, unloading the contents into piles next to the whiskey. He sat down on the couch, poured a whiskey, opened the first envelope, and began to read.

* * *

 _It is a day like any other. It begins with breaking out of the vague trance like state that now passes for sleep. There are shouts filtering down the passage, through the walls, and this too is normal, because it is never quiet here. Brendan stretches his limbs like a cat bathing in the sun, feeling the ache of his shoulders from a heavy workout session the previous day._

 _The morning routine begins. Shower block, clean clothes, cursory brush of hair and beard. A new lad catches his eye in the queue for breakfast, skinny and uncertain, seeking reassurance. He won't find that here, Brendan thinks, and turns away._

 _He feels the usual nervous tense excitement build on the walk back to his cell. He nods to the guards on the way; some of them nod back, some even greet him with a chorus of "alright Brady." Brendan does not make trouble, and he is respected for this. When he gets back to his cell, there is nothing on his bed. This in itself is not unusual, he checks the clock and realises that he is back earlier than usual. The post trolley goes past some minutes later, not making a stop at his door. Frowning, Brendan steps into the doorway, clicks his fingers impatiently to get the orderly's attention._

 _"Nothing today Brady. I was surprised too. Perhaps you've been forgotten about."_

 _Brendan retreats, sits on the edge of the firm mattress, mind spinning. The odd sensation of adrenaline draining out of the body leaves him flat, sharp pain residing under his rib cage._

 _The gym beckons. Despite the ache from the day before's exertions, Brendan loads the weights up as much as he can, revelling in the hot burn within his protesting muscles. He isn't sure how long he spends there. After exhausting the weights, Brendan starts the treadmill. Feet pound and sweat pours. He imagines his trainers hitting a wet pavement, breath sending vapour into the chill air, instead of the dank basement room he is really inhabiting._

 _Days pass with no respite to this gruelling routine. Other prisoners are giving him a wider berth than usual, but Brendan barely notices. The world around him is covered in a haze that leaves him numb. Even the ache in his body is not anchoring him to the present as he hoped it would._

 _A week goes by. Then two. Time coalesces, blending into itself. The only indicator that time has in fact moved on are the three occasions where the mail trolley passes him by, leaving him empty handed. The squeak of the wheels and rattle of the cage are mocking Brendan, reminding him of the letters he once dreaded receiving. Reminding him of the fact that it is now the thought of_ **not** _receiving the letters that he dreads._

 _The fourth week. Brendan sits on his bed once more, but this time something is different. He allows himself to think what has until now seemed unthinkable: Steven has given up. Given up on him. There will be no more letters. No more surreptitiously breathing the envelope in, with the vain hope of catching a scent that could momentarily transport him back to Steven and his life beyond these walls. No tracing the pen marks carefully, reverently, feeling along the indentations like they were braille. No more kissing each one before sending it back, feeling foolish but doing it anyway, hoping that somehow some of what he felt would be transmitted, would make its way back to its intended target._

 _No more hope. No more._

 _A gut wrenching, inhuman howl echoes through the cell, and Brendan realises that he is the one who is emitting it. He bites down hard on his fist, trying to muffle the sound which he seems incapable of putting a stop to. Teeth puncture skin, blood trickles. Brendan curls onto his side, into a foetal position, waiting the grief out. This is not a hurt he wants to feel; there are other types of hurt that he understands better, that he is more familiar with._

 _Later that evening, Brendan walks into the middle of a gang of prisoners notorious for their violent control of the south wing, hands clenched into fists. Ten against one; Brendan's kind of odds._ _Fists connect with flesh, Brendan's ears fill with the buzz of the fight._ _Teeth puncture skin, blood trickles..._

 _Brendan spends a week in the hospital wing, and later that month is moved to Smithlands prison. The pain, for now at least, has gone._


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: Thank you to all the readers for bearing with me over the past few chapters - I know there have been some grim moments! To make up for this, chapter 24 has some serious Brendan and Ste interaction of a sexual nature (so consider this a warning for explicit content)! I am going on holiday and will not be posting for two weeks - I will however be writing during this time so expect another update just after Christmas. Hope you all enjoy this one!**

* * *

24.

Father Des looked surprised as Brendan walked into the chapel, but not that surprised, leading Brendan to suspect that his visit was not wholly unexpected.

"Brendan. So good to see you," Father Des shook his hand warmly, a broad smile stretched across his welcoming face. The priest was wearing a maroon jumper over his clerical shirt and collar; a concession to the chill of the building. The church Father Des worked at had taken an hour to get to, mainly because Brendan had foolishly chosen rush hour traffic to drive there in. It was worth the travelling however. The church was an old one in a small village, lush green grounds surrounding it. Father Des himself seemed largely unchanged; a little rounder of stomach perhaps, and there were crinkled lines around his eyes where age was beginning to show, but his cheerful demeanour was thankfully intact.

"You too Father," Brendan said, taking a seat in a pew next to the priest when prompted to do so, "forgive my saying, but you don't seem all that shocked to see me."

Father Des gave a little chuckle and shook his hand.

"Your young friend came to see me. I suspected you would make your way here sooner or later."

A lilting melody made its way across the chapel from the altar. Brendan noticed the choir assembled there for the first time, choir master conducting a rendition of 'Hark the Herald', clearly deep into practise for the Christmas services. Two of the candles in the advent wreath that was displayed on the altar were lit, casting a warm glow on the choir boys who stood nearest to it.

"My friend?"

"Yes, Steven made a visit... oh, about a month or two ago now. How has everything been going?"

Brendan thought about Ste and felt his face crack into an uncharacteristic smile. He traced his fingers across his smiling mouth, imagining that Ste's lips were still imprinted there.

"It's... it's going okay Father. Things are definitely improving."

"Care to tell me about it?"

Brendan took in a sharp breath, and then glancing at the man next to him, nodded.

* * *

The front door opens as Brendan takes a slurp of whiskey from a nearly empty bottle. A glass lies on its side on the rug nearby, long since discarded in favour of the more expedient method of ingestion. He hears the rattle of keys and looks up, seeing Ste in the doorway, expression of horror on his face, presumably at the sight before him. Brendan puts down the bottle unsteadily on the table next to the sofa, and feels a little ashamed at the state Ste has found him in. The coffee table has been shoved carelessly to one side against the furthest sofa, leaving the living room rug exposed. Brendan sits in the centre of it, wearing only boxer shorts and his cross. His shirt and trousers are hanging over one of the arms of the sofa haphazardly, where Brendan had dispensed with them some time before. He is cross legged with a letter open in his lap, the rest of the envelopes are scattered around him on the rug like a beige kaleidoscope.

Brendan runs a hand through his hair, feeling self-conscious under Ste's scrutiny. How long has Brendan been sitting here? Ste shakes his head and tosses the keys on to the sofa, watching them land next to Brendan's discarded clothing.

"What the hell Brendan?"

Brendan tries to remember how to move his mouth to do something other than drink whiskey.

"What are you doing here Steven?" he asks, his voice more slurred than expected. Ste sighs and sits down opposite Brendan, loosening his scarf and laying it out on the floor next to him.

"Cheryl called round wondering if I'd heard from you. She was worried, but pretending not to be. Then Leah told us what she'd done. I said I'd come and check on you."

"Yeah? Well I'm fine Steven. So you can get yourself back home now, no need to worry about me."

"You call this fine?"

Brendan picks up the letter that is in his lap and waves it in Ste's face, in a way that he is vaguely aware is obnoxious.

"Fine and dandy Steven. Reading these is all the ego boost a man could ever need."

Ste rips the letter from Brendan's hand abruptly, causing Brendan to start. Ste looks down at the page and sighs.

"Why are you doing this eh? I'm going to kill Leah."

"Don't blame her. She was trying to help."

"Yeah, well she's not done a good job of it, has she? Look at the state of you."

"Why did you keep these Steven?"

"Because… oh I don't bloody know do I? Wish I hadn't now."

Brendan feels Ste's written words over and over again. The letters are like bullets, each one wounding him in a way he didn't think possible. Brendan stares at Ste, unable to break his gaze.

"I should've read them years ago. I'm sorry that I didn't."

Ste's cheeks flush, and his eyes scan the rug, taking in the discarded letters full of pain and anguish.

"They're not… I'd never want you to read them now Brendan. I wrote them years ago, when I were heartbroken. Have you read them all?"

Brendan shrugs, touches his fingers to his head.

"I meant to… I lost count I guess."

Ste doesn't say anything for a while. His eyes are drawn to the mess on the rug. Brendan searches for the appropriate words.

"Why… what made you stop Steven?"

Ste squirms a little, eyes shining.

"What… what do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb. Look around you. There's hundreds of them. Something tells me you didn't just decide to stop one day on a whim."

"I don't want to argue with you anymore Brendan."

"Who's arguing Steven?"

"Alright. If you must know, it was because of Doug."

Brendan rolls his eyes and reaches for the whiskey bottle.

"Oh don't start Brendan. Do you want the truth or not?"

"Go ahead," Brendan mutters, gesturing at Ste to continue with the hand holding the bottle. Ste glares at Brendan, his normally dancing cornflower eyes stony and fixed.

"Fine. Me and Doug, you've got to understand right, we weren't really happy. We argued a lot. But we had the deli and we worked well together. And I wasn't ready to be on my own, was I. So we kept going. Everyone kept telling us to end it, even Amy."

"Well this is all fascinating Steven, but this foray into your love life isn't exactly what I asked for is it?"

"Brendan, for once in your life will you just listen?"

Brendan loses the brief staring match that ensues, grumbling at Ste to continue.

"We were about to move in together. My flat was basically packed up. I came back late from the deli one evening and found Doug with the shoebox on his knee, reading the letters."

There's an uncomfortable silence. Brendan shuffles a couple of the nearest envelopes into an untidy pile.

"Bet that went down well."

"Not exactly. I'd kept it from him hadn't I, on top of everything else. We argued again, and this time we broke up. Two weeks later, Doug left for America."

"Huh," Brendan says, rather unhelpfully.

"The day he left, Doug came to see me. He asked me who I was really sending the letters for. He told me – he said I were being selfish. Asked me to think about how getting them must have been making you feel all that time. And I realised he was right. That same day after he left, I wrote the last one."

Brendan leans forward, picks out the letter that he had read first, searching for answers. The last one. Despite being the most recent, the paper is more bedraggled than might have been expected. Ste cranes his head forward too, squints at the words. He lets out a sigh that makes Brendan's heart throb painfully.

"I didn't know… that it was the last one."

Ste snorts derisively.

"Well of course you didn't. You never read any of them did you?"

"Steven…"

"No, look, it's fine right. It did me a favour really. Got me out of the cycle of writing to you, of wishing you were still there. And it meant I was single again. Got to spend time with the kids and to work on what I wanted with my career. When Doug visited about a year later, we made up. That's when he introduced me to Ben. Everything just sort of… moved on. But I still couldn't throw the letters away."

"Why not Steven?"

"I… I don't know. I just couldn't. Probably should have done."

"You can say that again."

Ste sniffs, unfolds his limbs and stands up slowly. Brendan watches him warily.

"Leah told me she remembers you from when she was little and that's why she gave you the letters. She's never told me. I always thought I was on my own. But she remembers…"

Ste's eyes are shining and Brendan wonders if he is going to cry. Instead, Ste begins to do something unexpected. He begins to unbutton his coat.

"Steven… what are –"

"Do you remember Brendan? What is was like back then?"

Ste shrugs out of his coat and bends down to pull off his boots and socks. Brendan swallows loudly.

"Erm…"

He isn't sure what to say, but he suddenly feels flushed and hot, especially when Ste's eyes meet his with an intensity that is almost frightening. Ste is unfastening the row of buttons down the front of his checked shirt, with his focus entirely on Brendan.

"Those months we were together, they were intense. You only had to look at me and my clothes would be off, do you remember that?"

Of course he remembers that, Brendan thinks, but doesn't say, because his mouth is dry and Ste is suddenly standing topless in his living room, undoing the belt on his jeans slowly, and if Brendan is not mistaken, teasingly.

"Do you remember not being able to keep your hands off me? Telling me to strip whenever and wherever you wanted? You remember that Brendan?"

And just like that, Ste is in front of him, clothing discarded, naked and aroused. Brendan feels as though he should protest, stop the madness, but then Ste strokes a hand down his bare torso and pulls at his cock, emitting a filthy moan that robs Brendan of all conscious thought. He can't tear his eyes away from the younger man, whose flawless skin glows in the light of the few lamps Brendan has lit, as though he is otherworldly, god-like. Brendan becomes aware of a tightness in his boxer shorts, and he fidgets a little to try and ease the discomfort.

"Steven –"

"Just answer me Brendan. Do you remember that?"

"Yes," Brendan barely breathes his answer, watching Ste continue to stroke his own body, powerless to look away.

"I said I don't want to argue anymore Brendan. I want to do what I never thought I'd get to do again when I was writing those letters. I want you to fuck me all night, exactly how you want. Tell me that's what you want too…"

Brendan wants, of course he does, but so many questions swirl in his head, even as Ste crouches down on all fours and leans in towards him. He feels his pulse rate soar as Ste's face nudges into his, the scent of him becoming overwhelming. Ste presses his lips to Brendan's hesitantly, despite the confident bravado he had been hiding behind. Brendan wishes his unkempt stubble was a little less wild, but Ste does not seem to mind. He looks into Brendan's eyes for a long lingering moment, before touching his lips to Brendan's once more. This time, Brendan responds. He opens his mouth against Ste's and swallows the moan from the other man's throat. Brendan grasps the back of his Ste's head and pulls him against him, with Ste folding himself around Brendan's body as though their bodies were meant to be intertwined. Ste straddles Brendan, his cock against Brendan's stomach in a way that does actually take him back to the time before, when Ste had been his and his alone to do with as he wished. Brendan's tongue delves into Ste's mouth, devouring him as Ste's hips rock against his agonisingly.

Ste breaks the kiss, pushing Brendan's torso to the ground as he shimmies down to kiss and lick the expanse of chest that's on display to him. Brendan lets out a low groan as Ste's mouth moves lower and he feels deft hands pulling at his underwear, shuffling it down his legs and off his body. When Ste's mouth closes around his dick Brendan tries to will his body to relax onto the rug, concentrating only on the feel of Ste tracing his tongue around his cock as if it was indeed ten years ago. And just like ten years ago, Brendan feels overawed by Ste on him, so familiar, so practiced, remembering exactly what makes Brendan tick. He revels in the blissful sensation of Ste's plush pink mouth around him, Ste grasping the root of his cock with one hand. Brendan allows himself a moment to enjoy, pressure and pleasure building irresistibly. Then he pulls Ste up, kissing him once more, slowly and languidly, grabbing Ste's arse cheeks in his hands as he does so, eliciting an aggressive sound from Ste. Brendan puts his mouth on to Ste's ear, licking teasingly around the rim.

"Sit on my face, Steven," Brendan whispers in the filthiest tone he is capable of. Ste moves to look into Brendan's face; his pupils are wide and unfocused with lust. He nods almost imperceptibly, swivels his body so that he is able to straddle Brendan in the opposite direction. Brendan pulls Ste's arse down over his face, stretching the plump cheeks apart and applying his mouth to the flesh in between. Brendan is forcibly reminded how receptive Ste is to this. As his tongue probes and penetrates the muscle Ste begins to writhe and gyrate on Brendan's mouth as though no time has ever passed with them apart. He pulls and kneads at Ste's buttocks, nails pushing into flesh hard enough to leave a mark. Moans and pants and curses escape from Ste, and Brendan takes that as a cue to snake one of his hands around his front to stroke him in time with the dip and push of his tongue's thrusts. It does not take long for Ste to cry out in pained ecstasy, Brendan feeling the evidence of Ste's climax on his fingers and the tightening of the muscle he had been tending to so assiduously.

After a minute Ste swings his legs back around and again straddles Brendan's body, taking in Brendan's face and smiling. He plants a kiss on Brendan's cheek, on his nose, and then on his lips. Brendan smirks, holds up his hand to Ste's mouth suggestively. Ste opens his lips and licks along Brendan's long fingers, the sight making Brendan dizzy with unspent lust.

"Good boy. You still got that useful little knack of being ready to go again in no time?"

Ste grins on Brendan's mouth, kissing him lazily. Brendan tastes all of Ste on his tongue.

"With you? I reckon so, yeah."

It is Brendan's turn to grin now, the idea of Ste's insatiability when with Brendan makes him feel warm, wanted. Ste scrabbles away from Brendan, rifling through his discarded jean pockets before returning to lie against Brendan, this time holding some sachets. Brendan raises an eyebrow.

"Did you plan this?" Brendan asks, stroking his thumb against the blush that forms on Ste's cheek.

"I… I hoped…"

Brendan pulls Ste back on top of him, causing the younger man to let out a surprised yelp.

"Full of surprises Steven," Brendan murmurs, attacking Ste's mouth with renewed passion, pressing his achingly hard cock against Ste's body as he does so. Panting, Ste breaks the kiss and sits up, tearing open one of the packets he had retrieved and smears jelly onto his fingers. Brendan momentarily forgets how to breathe as Ste's fingers disappear round his back and the boy lets out a long filthy moan. He closes his eyes briefly; when he opens them Ste is giving him the most intense look Brendan can ever remember seeing.

"Do you remember how much you liked to watch me do this? Opening myself for you? I know you do."

Brendan doesn't think it is possible to be more aroused than he is now; he notes with satisfaction that Ste is already half hard again, quick recovery clearly still one of his many talents.

By the time Ste lowers himself onto Brendan's cock Brendan feels ready to burst. Taking in several deep breaths he closes his eyes in an attempt to block out some of the sensation, but all he succeeds in doing is focusing on the tight heat of where their bodies are joined.

"Look at me Bren."

Brendan does as he is told, watches Ste as he starts to move on top of him. He digs his hands into Ste's thighs, letting out an unintentionally loud groan. Ste squeezes him teasingly and Brendan has to release his hold on the other man's legs to cover his face with his hands.

"Steven..." Brendan mumbles warningly, sound muffled by his fingers. Wrestling back a little control, Brendan sits up, pulling Ste towards him, encouraging Ste to loop his legs around Brendan's waist. Brendan spreads his hands flat across Ste's back in return, trying to touch as much of his velvety skin as possible, whilst pulling him in and kissing him, long and intimate. Ste threads one of his hands into Brendan's hair, pulling the strands and tilting his head back. The other hand shifts between their bodies so that Ste is touching himself once more. They move together like this, slowly, bodies and mouths intertwined. Brendan moves his hands, wanting to map every inch of Ste's flesh. The moans and pants increase, Ste's mouth on his moves erratically.

"Look at me Steven," Brendan whispers, using Ste's earlier words to his own ends. Ste opens his eyes and the lust there is clear to see, but Brendan knows instinctively that there is more than that, that there are a plethora of emotions visible that are reflected in his eyes too. Ste's chin is pink with stubble rash and his lips are shining with the evidence of Brendan's attention. The sight of him, so close to unravelling, makes Brendan's mouth curve into a smile.

"I want you to look at me when you come Steven. Can you do that for me?"

Brendan's words have the desired effect. Just like ten years ago, Brendan can literally talk Ste into climax; Ste's eyes widen and he cries out. The look of agonised bliss on his face makes Brendan growl and grab Ste's buttocks, lifting and moving the man's body for him. It does not take long then for Brendan to follow, an almost embarrassingly loud shout of Ste's name escaping his lips. Ste takes this as his cue to collapse onto Brendan, who pulls him closer into what amounts to an embrace.

"I love you," Ste says, kissing the hollow of Brendan's collarbone. Brendan sighs contentedly, stroking Ste's spun silk hair.

"I'm not letting go of you all night," Brendan says into Ste's hair. I'm not letting go of you ever, he thinks but does not say. Ste lifts his head, gives Brendan one of his most dazzling grins.

"I'm counting on it," he says, leaning in to press his mouth to Brendan's once more.

Much later, Brendan wakes in his bed, Ste draped over his arm, snoring softly. Brendan leans over and strokes his face with the hand not trapped under his body. He looks so peaceful, beatific. Even in sleep there is a slight upward curl to his lips, as though he is dreaming about something pleasurable. Watching Ste in the dusky darkness of the bedroom makes Brendan feel calm, at peace for the first time in days.

"You going to stare at me all night, or are you going to quit being a weirdo and get on top of me?"

Brendan notices one of Ste's eyes is open just a little, and the upward curl breaks into a blatantly teasing smile.

"Only too happy to oblige Steven," Brendan says, dislodging his arm and doing exactly as Ste had asked.

Later still. Dawn is breaking; the room is bathed in an early morning glow. Ste's head is propped up on his hand as he strokes across Brendan's chest with his other lightly, soothingly.

"You okay?" Brendan asks, and Ste moves his head in a sort of nod while continuing to graze his fingers through chest hair and across plains of muscle.

"I was just thinking..."

"Oh yeah?"

"I'll tell him. After Christmas. I don't want to wreck things for the kids do I, but I'll tell him straight after. That I'm going to be with you now."

Brendan's heart leaps and he catches Ste's hand, holding it to his chest. Their heart beats seem to be in perfect sync.

"You sure?"

"I love you Brendan. That's all there is to it."

Brendan pulls Ste down, turning their bodies so that they are facing each other. He kisses him, pouring all the love and adoration that he can't express with words into his actions instead. This time their lovemaking is just that: intimate and spurred on by emotions that run deep within them both.

Afterwards Ste makes breakfast in his kitchen, and it is so domestic, so ordinary, that Brendan wonders if he is dreaming. He can't help but slap Ste's underwear clad arse as it moves around the room, but feels a pang of guilt when the younger man winces.

"Oi, watch it! Little bit sensitive that area, you know."

Brendan takes a seat at the counter, sipping the coffee that has been mercifully put in front of him. He smirks at Ste's playful tone.

"Really? Sensitive?" Brendan asks with false wide eyed innocence, slurping his coffee to mask his smile. Ste pushes a plate of toast towards him, a wicked glint in his eye.

"Yep. Been given lots of attention haven't I," Ste hovers inches from Brendan's face, biting his lip, "just the way I like it."

Brendan's cock gives a feeble twitch and he takes a deep breath,which doesn't really have the intended calming effect because Ste is in such close proximity, smelling of sex and sunshine and hope.

"You are a tease boy."

Ste laughs his donkey bray laugh, and it shouldn't be endearing, but somehow it is.

* * *

That had been four weeks ago. Time had gone by in a blur. The first three of those weeks had been exactly what Brendan would have called ideal, if anyone had ever asked him what that meant. He had spent afternoons and evenings at the club, which was busy due to the festive season being in full swing, Christmas parties becoming a nightly occurrence. Then when he had arrived back to the flat, Ste would be waiting for him, sometimes on the couch with whiskey and dinner from the restaurant, sometimes naked in Brendan's bed. Brendan couldn't honestly say which he preferred. Ste talked about the restaurant, about food generally, with such passion and such knowledge that his enthusiasm naturally transferred to his audience. If he was totally honest though, Brendan felt a little bereft at some of the changes in Ste, mostly because of all the things he had experienced without Brendan. He had travelled across Europe, eating at beautiful restaurants and taking in incredible sights; things that Ste would never see through new eyes again. The conversation would sometimes awkwardly stall if Ste had got too close to mentioning Ben, clearly still used to years of their names being synonymous. Brendan knew from overhearing a conversation in the Olive Press that Ben was on one of his frequent trips out of town, which gave an explanation to Ste's constant presence. Brendan couldn't wait for Ste to be entirely free to be with him, but at the same time he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the forbidden, illicit element of their reunion.

The fourth weekend had been Ste's turn to have Leah and Lucas. Rather than keep him in the shadows, Ste actually asked Brendan to go to the pub with them for dinner. He could see people giving them odd looks, but Brendan didn't care. Leah had been thrilled with the opportunity to spend more time with Brendan, and her reaction and unquestioning acceptance of him touched him immeasurably. Lucas however wasn't quite so sure. He was polite, but quiet.

"He just has to get used to you," Ste had said as he walked with Brendan to the club, touching Brendan's elbow in a reassuring gesture. Nevertheless, Brendan could tell that the uncomfortable atmosphere between him and Lucas had unsettled Ste. Dragging Ste into the empty club, Brendan had pinned him against the wall and kissed him desperately. When they came up for air, Ste had been holding the lapels of Brendan's suit jacket, as though it was somehow offering him support.

"He'll get used to me," Brendan murmured, tracing his lips over Ste's gently. It was this action that coaxed Ste into smiling, and some of the tension had seemed to leave him then. At that moment Stuart chose to make an entrance, stepping into the bar from the cellar. Ste had let go of Brendan hastily in a way that irritated him. Stuart had raised his eyebrows at the scene despite Ste's retreat.

"Evening boss," Stuart said, immediately busying himself with restocking the bar and allowing Ste time to make his exit. Once he had left however, Stuart had taken Brendan to one side.

"Look Brendan, I know it's none of my business -"

"It isn't, but please go on."

"That bloke from earlier, Ste Hay..."

"Who is definitely not any of your business, as you so correctly pointed out."

"Hey, I'm just trying to help. I know his partner from the trade, and I'm guessing Ben doesn't have any idea that you're kissing Ste in doorways. Just be careful, that's all I'm saying."

Things felt as though they were balanced on a knife edge. Brendan understood Ste's decision not to say anything to Ben until after Christmas, but it troubled him nonetheless. It meant that there was more time for things to go wrong, time for (god forbid) Ste to change his mind. Brendan found himself more impatient than ever for the holidays to be over.

The positives though far outweighed the negatives. For the first time in a long time Brendan was able to sleep without the aid of painkillers, and his peculiar moments of blank stasis or abject panic had decreased dramatically. Brendan told Father Des all of this, or at least an abridged version, and again felt relieved by the evidently cathartic process of doing so. Father Des of course warned Brendan to be careful, wanted him to consider attending church, and to look after himself better. Brendan agreed. For the first time in a long time, he felt he could be better.

That night, when he returned home, Brendan went into the bathroom, stared into the mirror, weighing up his options. There was the church, and there was Steven. If those two things couldn't help him, then nothing could. Decision made, Brendan gathered the medication scattered about the bathroom, opened the child locked caps, and flushed it all down the toilet.


	25. Chapter 25 - A Very Brady Christmas

**A/N: Happy New Year to everyone! Hope the holiday season brought some joy. I meant to get this chapter finished sooner, but haven't had as much time to write over the holidays as I thought I would do. This one is more of an interlude; it doesn't do much to progress the story, relying more on character interaction, but I hope it is enjoyable anyway. Thank you so much once more for the kind reviews and for sticking with me on this journey, it is so so nice to hear your thoughts and please do continue to share your reviews with me, they make me very happy! On with this one, subtitled 'A Very Brady Christmas'...**

25.

 **25th December, 3.07 pm...**

"What the fuck Chez?"

"I'm sorry, okay?"

"No, not okay, I can't believe this -"

"Look Bren, I'm sorry, I am, but how was I supposed to know -"

"That this was a monumentally stupid idea? It doesn't exactly need spelling out, does it?"

"Well having an affair doesn't strike me as being particularly sensible either, but what do I know?"

"It's not an 'affair', Steven and me -"

"Call it whatever you like Bren, but it's what's got you into this mess -"

"Oh so this is my fault? Here I was thinking that my sister was deliberately trying to ruin my life, but no, it's all down to me as per fucking usual."

"Don't be so melodramatic Bren, it doesn't suit you."

The doorbell to the farmhouse rang, causing Brendan and Cheryl to pause for breath. Brendan laughed maniacally and clicked his fingers, pointing towards the hallway.

"Ah, there it is. Sounding of the death knell."

"What have I _just_ said about melodrama?"

"I'll get the door then shall I?" Nate asked as he appeared from the kitchen wearing a red polka dot apron and a harried expression. The doorbell sounded once more, but neither Brendan or Cheryl made any move towards it. Nate looked between the siblings and shook his head in exasperation.

"Dare I ask what's going on?"

"I wouldn't if I were you. That way you can plead ignorance when the police arrive."

Cheryl rolled her eyes at her brother.

"Hilarious as ever Bren."

Nate tutted and went to answer the door. Brendan gave Cheryl a glacial glare and headed to the sideboard, where a welcome bottle of whiskey was waiting to be opened.

"Yeah, good thinking Bren, alcohol is exactly what this situation needs."

Before Brendan could come up with a retort, the living room door opened, with Nate leading the way.

"Look who it is," he said with a trace of forced jollity. Brendan froze, whiskey glass in hand, and for the moment even Cheryl seemed to be lost for words. Ben and Ste stood in the doorway, both wearing heavy wool coats. Ben held up two bottles of champagne in his gloved hands, smile wide on his face.

"Merry Christmas everyone."

Brendan and Ste shared a look that did not go unnoticed by Cheryl. Coming back to himself, Brendan knocked back the whiskey he was holding in one gulp, throat protesting at the burn of the liquor.

"Merry fucking Christmas," he muttered under his breath.

* * *

 **Four weeks earlier...**

The news reports were threatening snow, and sure enough, when Cheryl cast a glance up to the sky, she was certain the clouds above held the promise of arctic conditions. She shivered and hurried to the clinic's entrance and its anticipated warmth. Dispensing with her hat and gloves as the central heating of the reception hit her, Cheryl gave in her name and quickly found the waiting room. She glanced around nervously, knowing that in reality of course Brendan wasn't lurking behind a sofa, but feeling uneasy nevertheless. Cheryl tried not to imagine what Brendan's reaction would be to her going behind his back like this, but she was desperate to do what she could to fix things. To fix him. And so she had pushed aside all of the niggling doubts and had made the decision to act.

When her name was called Cheryl walked into Mark's office with her head held high, attempting to exude a confidence she wasn't certain she felt. Mark's eyebrows lifted a little from his position behind his desk, but this was all that was offered by way of greeting.

"Doctor Phillips. Do you mind if I sit?"

"Please," Mark said, gesturing for the chair at the desk opposite his own. This was to be a formal visit, Cheryl noted, with Mark clearly asserting his dominance and professional status with his position. The thought of the hypocrisy left Cheryl trying to keep her lips from twisting into a scowl. Mark coughed and adjusted his glasses unnecessarily, balancing his chin in the bridge of his hands.

"I have to say that when I saw your name on my list for today I was a little surprised."

Cheryl fiddled with the turquoise gloves in her lap, her heart pounding too loudly in her ears.

"When you visited the club Doctor Phillips, we had a conversation, and I seem to remember telling you that it wasn't over."

Mark nodded slowly to indicate his understanding.

"So you did. Where do you want to pick up from?"

"I need you to stop treating our Brendan. You have to refer him to another counsellor."

The atmosphere in the room, which had already been tense, became ice cold with the friction between its two occupants. Mark and Cheryl stared at each other for a long while across the table before Mark broke the eye contact, standing up abruptly to look out of the window.

"And why are you asking me to do this exactly?"

"I think you know why Doctor Phillips. I'm sure there are plenty of rules against doctors sleeping with their patients. Just as I'm sure that those rules are in place for a reason."

When Mark looked back at Cheryl the façade had disappeared. She was momentarily stunned by the look of sheer desperation in his eyes.

"I - I've never done anything like... this before Cheryl. Please believe me when I say that."

Cheryl frowned, unable to keep her own mask of apathy in place.

"Do you have feelings for him? For our Bren?"

Mark sunk back down into his desk chair, wringing his hands distractedly.

"It wasn't something I intended to happen. Patients don't get under my skin..."

"But Brendan has, hasn't he," Cheryl said softly.

"I don't... yeah. Yes."

Cheryl let out a little laugh.

"Has a habit of doing that, my brother."

Mark regarded Cheryl with wary eyes, removing his glasses with slightly trembling hands.

"He is one of the most broken people I've ever met. Possibly broken beyond repair."

Cheryl flinched: the words were unwelcome, harsh and so without hope. She searched for something to respond with.

"These past couple of weeks... he's been better. He seems better."

Mark smiled, but it was a smile filled with bitterness that transformed his face, so that he seemed malevolent.

"Ah. He seems better? Has he patched things up with Steven then?"

"Bren and Ste are really none of your business. And this is exactly why you shouldn't be treating Brendan, Doctor Phillips. Surely you can see that."

"I might be his only chance. I understand Brendan's darkness in a way other therapists never could."

"I don't believe that, and I don't think for one minute that you do either."

"What happens if I refuse?"

Cheryl stood up slowly, pulling her gloves over her hands in an indication of imminent departure.

"If you refuse, then I'll report you. And you'll most likely lose your job. Either way, you'll lose Brendan. Do the right thing Doctor Phillips."

"This won't have a happy ending Cheryl. It'll all end in tears."

Cheryl turned at the door to give the doctor the most piercing glare someone like Cheryl could muster.

"Just be sure that they aren't your tears Doctor Phillips."

* * *

 **25th December, 4.16 pm...**

There weren't many things that Brendan disliked more than forced festivities. Cheryl had shoehorned him into a navy jumper with Rudolph's face beaming across the front, red bobble for a nose. Brendan would have protested for longer, but the Brady stubborn streak was pronounced in his sister, particularly when she was playing hostess, so he had capitulated and worn the damn thing. He supposed he had got off lightly, as Nate's jumper was bright red with rows of flashing LEDs in what he supposed were festive colours. Cheryl was wearing a santa hat and sequinned bauble earrings, which Brendan had rolled his eyes at, but at least Cheryl's personality meant that fun and frivolity as a dress code was vaguely understandable for her.

The jumper however paled into comparison with the situation he now found himself in though. Brendan was sat opposite Ste and Ben, wearing a paper Christmas hat in green that he had donned after being forced to pull crackers by his overly enthusiastic sister. Nate and Ben were in deep discussion over the possibilities of wine growing in Ireland, as Cheryl darted in and out of the kitchen with seemingly endless plates of food. Ste stared at Brendan across the table, trying to will Brendan into understanding the helplessness of his situation.

How had he found himself here? 'I wish it could be Christmas everyday' blared out from the speaker balanced on the sideboard, and the cheery atmosphere of the room caused Brendan to scowl inwardly, tugging the party hat from his head viciously. Cheryl took her seat next to him and began piling roast potatoes on to his plate.

"Where's your hat gone Bren?" she asked as she spooned on stuffing next to the potatoes, evidently ensuring Brendan had plenty of food in order to distract himself from the horror.

"It's gone to hell, where it and this song belongs."

"Not your favourite time of year then Brendan?" Ben asked across the table, passing the gravy jug to Ste who took it silently. Cheryl offered Ben a smile to counteract Brendan's stony glare.

"I think it's all the peace and goodwill to all men that our Bren has a problem with," Cheryl said with laughter in her tone, kicking Brendan underneath the table with a force that belied her jovial tone. Nate and Ben laughed. Brendan leant in towards his sister.

"Goodwill to one man in particular is my only current problem," he muttered into her ear. This time Cheryl's stern expression said it all.

"Brendan, just shut up and eat your dinner."

* * *

 **Two weeks earlier...**

Brendan was one of those people who believed that a well tailored suit was comparable to donning a suit of armour. Since he had been old enough to dress himself, Brendan had been aware of the impact dressing formally could have, of being able to give oneself an aura of authority and respectability that was purely based on appearance. That was why, whenever Brendan found himself going into battle, his instinct was to clad his body with wool silk and crisp cotton as a first line of defence.

And so it was that when Brendan sauntered through the door of the Olive Press that Saturday morning, he was dressed in his newest tweed grey suit, with a perfectly pressed black shirt underneath the jacket. The girl behind the counter smiled and blushed a little when she saw him, as she always did when she happened to be serving on one of Brendan's visits. Whatever 'it' was, it was gratifying to know that he still had 'it', still had enough charm to make people nervous and flirtatious in equal measure.

"Morning Brendan. You here to see Mr Hay?"

Somewhere along the way she had learnt his name, although Brendan couldn't remember sharing it with her. Pulling out the most charismatic grin in his arsenal, Brendan directed the full force of said grin in the waitress' direction.

"You must be a mind reader Stephanie."

The blush deepened to a soft rose, and she disappeared through the swing door to the back of the restaurant. Thank god for the existence of name tags during a charm offensive. Brendan glanced around, taking in the several tables that were occupied by people drinking coffee and reading papers, the usual chilled clientele of the weekend contrasting with the hustle and bustle of his weekday visits. When Ste appeared he was carrying a tray full of pastries, eyes shining with pleasure at the sight of Brendan.

"Here you are, grab this will you? Needs to go on the counter over there."

When Ste reemerged with a second tray full, Brendan relieved him of it without comment, placing it down next to the first and grabbing the first croissant from the pile and transferring it to his mouth. Ste shook his head fondly and turned to start the coffee machine.

"Don't you want something proper to eat?"

"Did you make this?" Brendan asked, mouth full of pastry. Ste looked back over his shoulder and grinned.

"Yeah, course."

"So then this _is_ proper, as you put it."

Ste selected a cup from the stack next to the machine, a light flush evident across his cheeks.

"I meant I can cook you something, didn't I."

Brendan swallowed the last of the croissant and leant across the counter, licking the residual butter and pastry from his fingers in a way that made Ste audibly swallow as he passed the coffee over, leaning against the counter so that his face was tantalisingly close to Brendan's. Their eye contact, which was always intense, blotted out the rest of the restaurant, condensing everything so that only the two of them seemed to exist. Brendan blinked and broke their gaze, looking down at the proffered coffee cup, tapping on the counter with twitching fingers.

"I missed you last night..."

Brendan chanced a glance up into Ste's face, but when he caught a glimpse of the clouds gathering behind Ste's eyes at his words, he swiftly looked away, eyes darting around for a place to settle. He felt a hand still his restless fingers.

"Brendan..."

"He's back. Isn't he?"

Brendan hadn't meant to sound so insecure, but realised that was how it must have come across to Ste.

"Nothing's changed Brendan."

"That's not what I meant Steven. You've been with me for weeks, and then, all of a sudden, vanished. Up in smoke, no explanation. Like walking into one of those bad soap operas that use 'it was all a dream' as a plot device."

Ste squeezed Brendan's fingers more tightly, forcing him to look up again. There was a storm brewing in those deep blue irises staring back at him, one Brendan was certain he would drown in one of these days.

"He came back early as a surprise and I couldn't get away. What was I meant to do eh? Look, I can't talk about this here."

Ugly questions formed in Brendan's mind, and as much as he tried batting them away, they continued to vie for attention in his doubt filled brain.

"Why not Steven? Worried that posh boy might walk in and ruin the fun?"

"No, not him -"

"Dad, I've finished the carrots, what do you want doing next?"

Leah's voice was unexpected, and startled Brendan into an upright position, just in time to watch her charge through the swing door holding a tea towel and a potato peeler. On spotting Brendan her face lit up and she made her way towards them, draping a casual arm around her father's shoulders.

"Brendan! What are you doing here?"

"What can I say? Your da makes the best cup of coffee, it's an addiction. How about you?"

"Oh, dad's letting me work over the Christmas holidays, saving up for a mad hol in Ibiza."

"Yeah, in your dreams Leah," Ste said with a scowl. Leah opened her mouth in mock horror.

"I'm nearly sixteen dad, practically all grown up. You'd let me go, right Brendan?"

Ste tutted and rolled his eyes as Brendan shrugged his shoulders.

"Funnily enough it's not Brendan's decision to make. Let's go and check those veggies, see if I can find you something else to do. We'll speak later, Brendan, okay?"

"Okay Steven, whatever you say."

"I'll be in in a sec dad," Leah said, wiping her hands on the tea towel and grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge underneath the coffee machine. She gave Brendan an appraising look.

"You know what's funny? Dad's not had a go at me about giving you those letters, which is weird, because he was proper angry about it when I first told him."

"Mysterious."

"I know, right? Plus the whole lunch out thing with you last week..."

Brendan couldn't help but smirk at Leah's persistence. She would make a great detective, he thought. Either that or an excellent criminal mastermind.

'What is it you're thinking Leah?"

"Oh, I don't know. Just that my meddling might have paid off. Has it?"

Brendan was warmed by the hopeful gleam in Leah's eye. He leant in and gestured towards her, as though about to impart some secret knowledge. Leah moved towards Brendan eagerly.

"Let me tell you something, while your da's not here..."

"Go on."

"You're definitely too young to go to Ibiza," Brendan said, and headed for the door with a sly grin on his face.

"You know you sound just like dad!" Leah called after him, and Brendan allowed himself a little chuckle.

Later that afternoon there was a tentative knock on Nolans' office door.

"Come in," Brendan yelled, not looking up from his paperwork. An awkward shuffling caused him to sigh and look up into Ste's face. He was hovering near the door holding a small basket filled with pastries.

"You busy? I can come back later if you want?" Ste asked, pointing to the door. Brendan put down the highlighter he had been holding, rolling his head from side to side to ease the tension that had built in his neck.

"Close the door Steven," Brendan said gently, moving towards Ste and pausing whilst there was still some space between them. Ste clicked the door shut quietly, standing uncertainly between it and Brendan. Brendan inclined his head at the basket in Ste's hands.

"What's that you've got there?"

Ste glanced at the basket as though he'd forgotten he was holding it.

"What, this? It's a peace offering isn't it. Proper pastries. You know, like from earlier."

"Well, you certainly know the way to a man's heart Steven," Brendan said, folding his arms across his chest protectively. Ste placed the basket down on the floor and reached out to put a hand on Brendan's folded arm. His expression was beseeching.

"Nothing happened Brendan, I swear. It was hard right, because normally we would of, but I couldn't. I wouldn't do that do you."

Brendan released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He had spent the night before torturing himself with images of Ste writhing with pleasure under a man that wasn't Brendan. Brendan hated being on the back foot, and the situation with Ben definitely left him feeling too out of control for his liking. He uncrossed his arms and cupped Ste's cheek with his right hand. Ste sighed longingly.

"Long way to go to Christmas Steven."

"We'll be fine Brendan. Just have to make time for each other, won't we."

Brendan pressed his lips against Ste's, pulling at the plump flesh of Ste's bottom lip with his teeth, eliciting a low moan from the younger man.

"Have you got time now?"

Ste smiled on Brendan's mouth, teasing with soft bumps of lips and tongue.

"Mmmhmm..."

Brendan reached behind Ste and twisted the lock on the office door, a sense of deja vu shooting through him with the familiar action.

"Take off your clothes, Steven," Brendan whispered into Ste's ear, making him shiver.

"Don't need to tell me twice."

* * *

 **25th December, 5.57 pm...**

If there was one place Brendan hadn't expected to spend his Christmas Day, it was the bathroom of Cheryl's rented farmhouse hiding from guests, yet there he was. Sitting against the bath, legs crossed in front of him, Brendan closed his eyes, feeling the burning heat of the whiskey he had brought with him as it travelled down into his stomach. Even with copious amounts of wine and whiskey, the horror of the day would simply not abate in his brain. Sitting around a dinner table with Ste and Ben had been monumentally painful; the urge to run away, to flee the situation had been so strong, and he had probably only lasted as long as he had because he didn't want to disappoint Cheryl.

A soft knock at the door roused Brendan from his seething stupor. He opened one eye and peered at the door, but otherwise ignored the disturbance. The door handle twisted downwards, but thankfully Brendan had had the foresight to lock the door earlier. Another firmer knock sounded.

"Bren? Brendan? It's me."

Brendan rubbed his face in his hands and groaned. Pulling himself up using the bath as support, he made his unsteady way to the door and slid the lock over, opening it a touch. Once Ste was in, Brendan locked the door once more. Ste was holding Brendan's bottle of whiskey and his pupils were as small as pinpricks. Clearly Brendan wasn't the only one who had spent the afternoon getting themselves drunk.

"You're drinking whiskey?"

"It reminds me of you?" Ste said, a slur evident in his normally harsh and clipped accent. Brendan snorted and took the bottle from Ste, balancing it on the sink counter.

"You don't need anymore of that Steven."

Ste looked as though he was about to argue, but when he caught Brendan's eye he hesitated. There was a long moment of silence, too long for Brendan's liking. As he was about to speak however, Ste seemed to come to a decision, launching himself on to Brendan, pushing him against the door and attacking his mouth desperately, heat of whiskey laced breath and slide of tongue distracting Brendan from everything else temporarily. He gripped at Ste's back, pulling his jumper up to touch the smooth skin underneath. Brendan dug his nails into the soft flesh of Ste's waist, wanting to leave his marks in Ste's body, driving Ste to moan and push his tongue further into Brendan's panting mouth. Ste thrust his body against Brendan's forcefully as he could, spiking the arousal running through Brendan's nerve endings. Ste broke the kiss temporarily, leaning his forehead on Brendan's, giving them both a chance to get their breath back.

"I'm so sorry Brendan. Cheryl asked and Ben said yes before I could think of an excuse -"

"It's fine Steven."

Ste kissed him gently then, almost shyly.

"It's not fine. All I seem to be doing lately is apologising to you."

"You never need to apologise to me."

Ste bit his bottom lip and looked up at Brendan through his eyelashes coquettishly in a way that made Brendan's stomach flip.

"Let me make it up to you in another way then."

"Well you know I'll never say no to that Steven."

He grasped Ste's head and kissed him again with as much passion as he could muster, whilst Ste undid Brendan's jeans with unsteady fingers. Ste dropped to his knees, dragging Brendan's jeans and underwear down to his ankles, leaving his erect cock exposed before him. Just the sensation of Ste's hot breath on his skin left Brendan's knees weak, and he found himself leaning his body back against the door for support. Ste's tongue licked teasingly along the underside of Brendan's cock, and Ste's eyes never left Brendan's, desire darkening the irises to a midnight blue. Brendan watched as Ste's mouth engulfed the head of his cock, tongue swiping and laving as he took more into his mouth with every movement. Brendan closed his eyes, lost himself in the sensations surrounding him. When he opened them he looked down to watch Ste's head bobbing and couldn't resist gripping a hand through his hair, encouraging Ste to take him deeper. Ste hummed a little, allowing Brendan to fuck his mouth, massaging Brendan's balls in his hands, encouraging him to spread his legs a little to allow him better access. Fingers pressed insistently and Brendan felt spasms of pleasure shoot through him.

"Steven - fuck. I'm going to come..."

Ste swallowed around Brendan, ignoring his gag reflex, taking him nearly entirely into his mouth and throat. Brendan's climax rippled through him, and he bit down on his knuckles to smother the irrepressible moans escaping his lips. Ste swallowed everything Brendan offered, before releasing him gently and sitting back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Jesus Steven. That mouth of yours..."

"Merry Christmas Brendan."

A loud knocking on the door brought them both to their senses, startling Brendan who moved away from the door and hastily pulled up his trousers.

"Bren. Open the door," Cheryl's voice penetrated through the panels. Brendan noted with dread that she did not sound happy. Ste shook his head frantically, but Brendan put a finger to his lips and motioned for him to stand behind the door. Opening it as little as possible, Brendan was face to face with his sister, who looked furious.

"Ben wants to go and he is asking where Ste is. Tell him to sort himself out and get downstairs _now,_ " Cheryl hissed through gritted teeth.

"Chez -"

"Save it Brendan," she said, walking away without looking back. Brendan rested his head against the door frame, tapping a countdown on the wood with his fingers.

"Time's up, Steven."

* * *

 **Eight years earlier...**

 _Mass catering a Christmas dinner is a challenge, and not one that Wakefield prison is really prepared for. Nevertheless it is offered up, as though reminding the incarcerated of what they are missing in the outside world is something they ought to be grateful for. It is reminiscent of a school canteen, the same reliance on lining up obediently, of taking turns, yet without the excitable, hopeful din that children bring to a room. Instead the atmosphere is muted, grim. No-one is inclined to speak, or even to initiate conversation in the first place. The men serving are wearing Christmas santa hats; the effect they give is jarring against their humourless expressions. The artificial lighting in the dining hall lends the men a grey, washed out pallor that matches the grey, washed out palette of life inside the four walls of the prison._

 _Brendan avoids the catering jobs on offer. They only serve to remind him of the other time, of peeling potatoes with Walker, stacking baking trays high in the huge metal sinks while he unwittingly offered his life up for destruction. Preparing food also reminds him of other things, even more dangerous than Walker. Of_ _crème brûlée. Of jam sandwiches. Of rare steaks cooked exactingly. Of baking bread. It is better not to think about the time before any more than is necessary. Survival often depends on shutting down anything that may lead to emotion bubbling up to the surface._

 _The turkey is dry, tasteless. Brendan concentrates on the arduous task of chewing, swallowing, going through the motions. He sits at the end of the long trestle table, ready to make a swift getaway once this travesty is over. The two men nearest him are talking quietly about the imminent visit of family, and Brendan tries to zone out, to not allow himself to feel bereft. He had rejected Cheryl's visiting order, and after that had listened to her sobbing and begging over the phone for him to let her see him. It broke his heart to cause his sister such pain, but the idea of Cheryl and all of her life and colour stepping into the cold confines of the visiting room at this time of year is abhorrent._

 _It is eerily quiet when he returns to his cell. The inmates are subdued; for a change it is the occasion that has subdued them rather than a prison guard. Brendan sits on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, taking in deep breaths with his eyes closed. He knows deep down that this is pointless, that there is nothing he can do - the memories will pour in regardless of any expedient measure he attempts to take. Reams of rainbow wrapping, sherry flavoured kisses underneath the_ _mistletoe_ _. Stockings full to the brim with stuffed animals. Christmas lights lining the river in Dublin. His third December behind bars, and the stains of time still have the power to sting, still hurt as much as razor blades slashing at the skin. It is the worst time of year, because it had once been the best time of year. The contrast between the two is agony._

 _Brendan allows the pain to embed itself, to take root in his chest. He opens his eyes and they are hot, stinging. He reaches underneath his pillow and pulls out two things: an envelope and a photograph. He had kept the photograph almost against his will. When it had come down to it he found that he could not get rid of it, he simply wasn't strong enough. The edges are curling upwards, and the photo itself carried the evidence of being regularly handled, smudges of fingerprints marring the sheen of the paper. But, despite its tattered appearance, it holds power, this photograph. Brendan can feel the potential of it just by touching it. An image filled with incandescent hope, tentative happiness. Bravery. The unbearable beauty of it takes Brendan's breath away, as though he has been punched in the gut._

 _And then there is the envelope. It is the most recent one, and although he knows he needs to send it back to join the others, he has hesitated, reluctant to let go. Brendan holds the envelope that promises so much, and the temptation to open it is like a virus spreading through his body from his fingertips. It is getting harder and harder to let go, even though he knows he must. His fingers tingle at the thought of ripping open the paper, of tearing the words from their hiding place. His thumb hovers over the corner where a tiny gap begs to be prised open._

 _He stops. It does not do to dwell on memories. The four walls surrounding him, that is his reality, and he needs to live in it. Brendan knows that he needs to return the envelope and dispose of the photograph: these things he must do in order to survive..._

* * *

 **Dear Brendan,**

 **Happy anniversary. Or at least it's what I like to think of as our anniversary. Today is the day I came to find you in Dublin, three years ago. Seems like forever ago, doesn't it? I always get caught up thinking about it in December. I have to remind myself that it really happened. I have no-one I can talk to about it you see, so writing to you is a way of getting to relive it. It was scary on that flight, I was so nervous. And then the stuff with John Paul...**

 **But then you came to find me on the bridge, and you told me you couldn't live your life without me, and I didn't tell you but that's how I felt too. I still don't understand how you can have said that and then cut me out only a few months later. I keep hoping that you'll change your mind, that if I just keep writing then one day you'll snap, you'll have to open the letter and read it and find out how I feel.**

 **I was so happy on that bridge. And I think you were too. That night was amazing, and you said you'd never let me go, do you remember that Brendan? Getting to see Dublin with you felt so right. I keep thinking that I'll go back there, that I want to see it all again, but I'm not sure I can do it without you. It would be weird, because you'd be missing. But I would love to stand on that bridge again. I could even make a love lock. I know I said I would never, but the idea of our names being together somewhere, it makes me feel better somehow. Like in some way you could be with me, stupid as it sounds.**

 **I hate this time of year. I used to love it, used to be so excited, especially when I had the kids. It'll be good this year to be at Amy's so that I can see them opening their presents, but it's not the same. It'll never be the same as that one Christmas we had together, the best one of my life. Because it was Brendan. I know I say it all the time, but I still don't understand how you could think that I'm better off without you. You helping the kids with their stockings and kissing under the mistletoe even though you hate stuff like that... well, it was special. And I'll never forget any of it.**

 **Had a Christmas card from your Chez. I'm going to go see her in the new year. It's nice to be close to her, it makes me feel a little bit closer to you, in a way. And the kids are making me something, it's supposed to be a surprise, but I think it's a collage to go up in the deli. Amy's helping, so it should be good.**

 **The best present I could get would be hearing from you though Brendan. I know I say this everytime I write, but you've never read any of them have you, so I'll say it again. I miss you. And not being with you hurts. I told you that I'd never feel any differently about you, and I meant it Bren. I wish you'd meant it too.**

 **Happy anniversary. And merry Christmas. I love you.**


	26. Chapter 26

26.

The dead were gathering. It had happened slowly at first; shadows in incongruous places and whispers that didn't belong to a living soul. Inexplicable stains appeared on the countertops after they had been wiped down. Frequent smells of the grave drifted intermittently through the building, discernable seemingly only to him. Essence of decay. Bouquet of iron.

And then the back of a head, the disappearance of a silhouette into the office, or onto the cellar stairs, but when he made to follow they would be gone. And yet… where they gone? The atmosphere became pensive, pervasive, thick with the promise of something to come.

Violence was rising too. His temper was flaring more than it had in the ten preceding years. Molehills became mountains. Missing orders were the end of the world. Staff late for shifts were swiftly sent home, only timely intervention from a more reasonable staff member saving their jobs. A drug dealer was discovered on the premises and was promptly beaten to a pulp, parole be damned. Afterwards his knuckles throbbed pleasurably and his blood sung in his veins and he felt ecstatic and alive.

The knife edge was tilting. The tightrope act was becoming decidedly unsteady; he was losing his balance with increasing regularity. It was only a matter of time before he slipped, and the only direction to fall in was down. Down into the abyss. But still he held on, despite his unreliable, tenuous grip. Brightness and light were still visible, but they were fading, and he was tiring.

And still the ghosts whispered their poison. Damaged, worthless, unhinged. Broken. Broken. Broken. It was hard to ignore when it fed into the fractured mindset already in place; his defenses were down.

The dead were gathering, waiting. But for what?

* * *

When Ste let Cheryl into his apartment late that night she was shocked by how drained he looked, but tried not to let her reaction show on her face.

"Happy New Year babe."

"Happy New Year," Ste said dully as Cheryl enveloped him into a hug. She landed an affectionate peck onto his cheek. When they parted Cheryl took a moment to assess Ste. Unusually, though in time gone by it had been normal, Ste was clad head to foot in a charcoal grey tracksuit that was too big on him, giving him an air of vulnerability, of being fragile, breakable. His hands were wrapped in the sleeve cuffs in what appeared to be an action designed to comfort. Ste's bare feet stood out starkly, the only area of his normally glowing skin visible apart from his tired face. Cheryl tried to block out the notion that occurred to her: that as Ste looked worse Brendan looked better, as though her brother had sucked the life out of him, draining him of his vitality.

Ste gestured for her to come in, and she followed him into the kitchen, which was surprisingly small given that it was owned by a chef, most of the granite worktops were taken up with appliances. She leant against the sink, eyes drifting to the fridge where several photographs were jauntily angled using magnets to hold them up. Cheryl was surprised and a little warmed when she noticed a photo of Brendan alongside the others. Leah was in the photo too, her arms flung around Brendan's neck in a gesture of easy, familiar affection. Brendan was smiling, or at least there were crinkles of contentment at his eyes, mouth turned up slightly at the corners, a side eyed focus on Leah's face instead of the camera.

"Drink?" Ste asked, causing Cheryl to blink and pull her eyes away from the image. He was pointing at a glass fronted cupboard where spirits were kept.

"Got any wine love?"

Ste grinned and suddenly he looked more like himself.

"Can do better than that Chez," he said, opening the fridge and retrieving a bottle of champagne.

"I like your thinking. So what are we celebrating?"

Ste shrugged his shoulders, releasing the trapped cork from its prison with a pop.

"New year new starts, isn't that the type of shit people normally say? Do we need an excuse?" he asked, handing a sleek flute to Cheryl, who tutted and laughed.

"Nope, no excuse required. Cheers. Happy Thursday."

Their glasses clinked musically and Cheryl sipped at the bubbles. Ste nearly asked if it was a bottle selected by Ben, but decided against it, instead gesturing to the photograph that had captured her attention earlier.

"Nice photo," she said, and Ste glanced over at the fridge, his face softening into a smile once more.

"That's our Leah that. She got one of them printers for Christmas, it does pictures from your phone or something. There's photos everywhere."

"She's fond of our Bren," Cheryl murmured. Ste regarded Cheryl, a flash of guilt evident in his eyes, but stepped towards the fridge, running his fingertips over Brendan's face as though he had been compelled to.

"Yeah. Sometimes think she's more in love with him than…" he paused awkwardly, and Cheryl smiled encouragingly.

"More in love with him than you are? Is that possible?"

She asked the question gently, without accusation. Nevertheless, Ste's expression shifted, something like agony on his face, tears filling his eyes.

"No Chez, I don't think it is," he said, discarding his glass on the counter and hastily wiping his face with a sleeve. Cheryl's heart ached for him, and she reached across, rubbing his upper arm soothingly.

"I'm sorry hun, I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't, it's fine. Come on, let's go sit in the other room."

Once ensconced in the comfort of the living room Ste seemed to have gathered himself. Tucked in the corner of the couch, Ste held his refilled glass in his lap, blanket spread across both him and Cheryl.

"You look tired babe," Cheryl said sympathetically. Ste laughed, but it was curiously lacking in humour.

"I don't know how people do it. Some people spend years having affairs don't they. I don't know how they can just get on with life. I can't think about anything else, me. Can't concentrate at work even."

"How long has it been going on? I thought after the bonfire night drama it was all over."

"Did Brendan not tell you?"

Cheryl rolled her eyes.

"Oh aye, you know what a big fan Bren is of a heart to heart. Even on a good day asking him for information is like getting blood from a stone."

"Right, yeah. Well, we made up… I guess it was right after the stud, you know, with Leah and the letters."

Cheryl took a deep breath and tried to contain her surprise. She could hardly believe so many weeks had gone by without her realizing what was going on. She had been so focused on trying to solve the issue with Mark and Brendan's therapy, not to mention pulling out all of the stops for his first Christmas on the outside, that Brendan and Ste's growing closeness had completely passed Cheryl by.

"I wish you'd told me love."

"I'm sorry Chez. I just wanted to wait until I'd told Ben before telling anyone else."

"So you _are_ telling him?"

"Yeah. I was always going to. Just couldn't, you know, over Christmas and everything. Didn't want to disrupt the kids did I."

Cheryl ventured a smile, anticipation fluttering in her gut.

"You and Bren? You're going to be together? For real?"

Ste couldn't help but smile in return, the mention of Brendan seemed to alter his anxious mood instantly.

"I mean it'll take a bit of time, but… yeah, that's the idea."

"Wow. I can't believe it. I so hoped you guys would be able to work things out, but I thought it was just me and my romantic wishful thinking. He loves you so much Ste, you know that right?"

A blush spread across his cheeks.

"I think so. It still hurts that he shut me out for so long. Even more now than before I reckon, because now that we've decided to be together it feels like a right waste of time."

"It can't be helped now hun. No point in looking backwards. Besides, life's not been all bad has it?"

"Nah, course not. But it makes some stuff more complicated. Like, our Lucas, he doesn't remember him, and it takes him ages to warm up to people."

Cheryl drained her glass, thinking about Ste's shy son. She had been a presence in the Hay children's childhood, albeit intermittently, and had watched them both grow into their personalities. Leah was precocious, as well as having an abundance of charisma. People were naturally drawn to her, and the girl thrived on social situations of all types as a result. Lucas could not have been more of a contrast. He was clever but quiet, finding comfort in long standing relationships, hesitant to open up to anyone he saw as a stranger. Cheryl could see the problem that Brendan would pose to painfully shy Lucas.

"What about Ben?" Cheryl asked as delicately as she could. Ste momentarily closed his eyes as though he found the thought difficult.

"Lucas loves Ben. It took ages, but now he really does. He's been there since he was seven remember, it's a long time when you're that age."

"And what about you? How do you feel about him?"

Ste sighed, leaning his chin on his knees, body curled up into a protective position.

"He's not Brendan Chez. That's all there is."

Cheryl felt her eyes prick with tears and she sniffed loudly.

"Oh love…"

"It's just so hard to know how to tell him. We've been together so long. And we've been happy. It's complicated, especially with –" Ste stopped guiltily, shifting his limbs beneath him awkwardly.

"Especially with what? Am I missing something here?"

"Sort of. If I tell you Cheryl, you have to swear to me that you won't say anything to Brendan. I'm serious."

Cheryl held her hands up as if she was taking a pledge.

"Course I won't if you don't want me to babe. Look, how about I fill these glasses up first, and when I get back you can tell me all about it eh?"

Ste nodded, pulling the blanket away from Cheryl's legs, wrapping himself more securely in the fleece lined material.

"Sounds like a plan."

* * *

The club was busy, the night in full swing. Brendan glanced at his watch, mentally calculating the hours until last orders. He opened the office door and stepped out into the riot of lights and noise. There was a small contingent of dancers near the DJ booth, but most of the crowd that evening seemed to be there simply to drink and relax. He was surprised that there was still such a buzz despite it being the first few days of January, but Brendan supposed that most would be back to work after the weekend and were therefore still in holiday mode. Moving towards the bar he caught the eye of Jonas the shift supervisor, who gave Brendan a reassuring nod. All was well. Brendan changed direction to check out the ground floor, leaning over the railings that enclosed the mezzanine in order to get a better view. There he saw something which caused his eyebrows to raise, a sight that was unexpected to say the least. In the corner nearest the stairs stood his bar manager, deep in conversation with Ben, heads bent together in what appeared to be a private discussion. Brendan considered heading downstairs to gauge their reaction as he calmly interrupted them, but something told him to hold back. Instead, Brendan watched the pair intently, Stuart occasionally touching Ben's elbow, perhaps trying to emphasis a pertinent point. He remembered Stuart's warning from a couple of weeks ago, advising Brendan that him and Ste should be discreet. Should he have given this seemingly coincidental connection between the two men more thought than he had? At the time Brendan had dismissed it as irrelevant, yet seeing them together stirred suspicion within him.

After what felt like an eternity, but was in reality only a few minutes, Stuart walked away from Ben, away from the darkness of the stairway, back into the fluorescent glow of the lower level bar. Brendan tried to get a look at Ben's face, trying to get a sense of the man's mood, but as Stuart walked away the other man swiftly turned so that he was largely shrouded in shadow. Humming thoughtfully, Brendan pushed himself away from the railings and headed towards his original destination. There was one chair available at the bar, so Brendan used this good fortune to take a seat, motioning without words for Jonas to pour him a drink. Jonas did so quickly, without fuss, a trait which Brendan appreciated. It was a routine of sorts; if all was quiet and he wasn't needed behind the bar, Brendan would sit in front of it for one or two instead, sometimes striking up conversations with customers, sometimes chatting a little with the staff. Jonas paused with a slight smile on his young freckled face.

"Everything okay boss?"

"Grand. All quiet on the western front?"

Jonas glanced across at the bar staff who were busying themselves with the various tasks they had been assigned.

"Yeah all good. Sophie wants to swap her late on Tuesday for the split shift on Thursday. Faye's cool with it but I told her to check with you first."

Brendan sipped his whiskey, the ice spinning in the glass and knocking against his mouth, sending a shock of cold through his teeth. He looked over towards Sophie, the newest and youngest member of staff, who was opening beer bottles with her tongue in between her teeth in an expression of concentration. He liked her; something about Sophie had reminded him of Leah, which had led him to take her on despite a lack of experience.

"How's she getting on?" Brendan asked, and Jonas nodded in a way that was overly casual. Clearly someone had taken a shine to the new girl.

"Yeah she's doing good. Picking it up dead quick, can't believe she's only been here three weeks. Natural with the customers."

"Good to hear. Sure you'll be glad to be keeping an eye on her, eh?" Brendan said with a smirk, watching in amusement as Jonas coloured a little, returning to serving a little way down the bar. Shaking his head with a laugh, Brendan returned his attention to his whiskey, letting himself be warmed by the alcohol and the familiar atmosphere of his domain. However he was not given long to enjoy the rare moment of peace. A tap on his shoulder caused Brendan to turn around to see Ben standing behind him, holding a drink in one hand.

"Brendan. Is there somewhere we could talk? In private?"

Brendan knocked back the dregs of his whiskey and held the glass towards the bar. It was swiftly removed from his grip and replaced moments later, replenished. All the while Brendan's gaze remained on Ben, who to his credit seemed to be unfazed, calmly awaiting a response, his expression giving nothing away.

"Mmm. My office. Follow me."

Brendan led the way back to the office, closing the door on the commotion and noise of the club. Sitting in his desk chair, whiskey deposited on the table in front of him, Brendan gestured for Ben to take a seat opposite him. His brain unhelpfully supplied a flashback to Ste's naked body bent forward over the desk, pert arse pink with marks from Brendan's hands; slaps that he had administered whilst Ste keened with pleasure. To redirect his thoughts, Brendan chose instead to take in the man sat before him. He hadn't taken much notice of Ben previously, because whenever he had been in his vicinity the far superior figure of Ste had been there to capture his attention. Being alone with Ben meant an opportunity to analyse the competition. He was walking proof of Ste's type: Ben was tall, dark and had an attractive open face, grey streaks in the sides of his hair the only real indication of age. He was wearing a pale blue shirt which was open at the neck, revealing a hint of chest hair. Although Ben was clean shaven and slimmer than Brendan, he could still understand the attraction, even though the man in front of him was not his cup of tea.

"So what can I do for you?" Brendan asked, cold politeness to his tone. Ben regarded him for a moment without emotion before beginning.

"You know that Ste and I have been together for five years now. So I first heard of your existence a long time back. He told me about your life together, and about how he was... after you got put away."

Excerpts of the letters played in Brendan's head, fragments of heartbreak that had embedded themselves in his mind.

"Okay..."

"You see, we've never had secrets from each other. I know the good, the bad and the ugly, and I love him anyway. One thing we have in common perhaps."

When it was clear that Brendan had no intention of responding, Ben sighed and continued.

"All that changed when you turned up. It's funny really, over the years there have been times when he was distant, and I knew he was thinking about you. When he opened the restaurant, it was obvious Ste regretted not being able to share it with you. But those moments always passed. Until now. Ste's been... absent, and it's not exactly hard to work out why."

"What exactly is it that you're trying to say to me?"

Ben took a deep breath and drank deeply from his glass. Brendan noticed that Ben's hands were trembling a little.

"I know you've been sleeping with him Brendan."

Brendan nodded, rubbing the bridge of his nose, trying to drive the ecstatic sound of Ste coming in this very room out of his head.

"How?"

Ben laughed and spread out his hands on the desk.

"It hardly takes a genius to work it out. But if I needed the proof, I suppose the love bites on my boyfriend's thighs that I didn't put there were a pretty good indicator. There's marks all over him and he's not even bothered to hide them. I think he might be hoping that I'll confront him so that he doesn't have to confess."

Brendan could hear the hurt and betrayal that Ben's voice was laced with. He felt a shiver of guilt despite himself.

"Why haven't you?"

Ben smiled then, an unnerving smile that made Brendan shift a little in his seat.

"You clearly haven't been paying attention Brendan. Do you suppose that I'm going to make this easy for him?"

Brendan considered his words, ccking his head a little to look into Ben's eyes intently.

"Some might say that making it easy would be exactly what you _should_ do for somebody you claim to love."

"You know you've got a nerve. You didn't have to come back here, didn't have to seek Ste out. He was happy before you showed your face."

Brendan raised a cynical eyebrow.

"You saying he ain't happy now?"

"I'm saying that walking away from his life and all of his future plans isn't something that should be done lightly."

Brendan sat back in his chair, holding his glass in the palm of one hand.

"Future plans. Huh."

"You are aware of how much Ste's children mean to him, aren't you Brendan?"

"Of course I am," Brendan spat, temper beginning to fray. Ben looked wary, but continued nonetheless.

"Well, they mean a lot to me too, Leah and Lucas. Great kids. Known Lucas since he was just a little kid. We're close."

There were several responses available to Brendan. He took a deep breath and decided to attempt the reasonable, grown up option.

"No-one would ask you to give up Leah and Lucas. If you want to keep in touch with them, then -"

"You don't understand, do you? It's not about them. Or not just about them. I'm sure you've realised that my work takes me away a lot. Conveniently for you. But I've been putting things in place these last few months, starting with a new job based in Manchester. No more going away. I've also got an offer on the table for a house outside Chester, nearer Amy."

Brendan felt a little uneasy, as though a bombshell was about to be dropped.

"See, me and Ste had talked - oh, a few months ago now - about our work life balance. He wanted it to change, wanted us to spend more time together. To be a proper family."

 _"You have no-one in your corner. I want to be in your corner."_

Leah had been right. No-one was in more need of someone in their corner than Brendan was. He stood up, ready for this conversation to be over.

"Look, I'm very sorry for the... inconvenience, or whatever, but -"

Ben made an exasperated sound and shook his head.

"You _still_ don't get it Brendan, so let me spell it out for you. Ste wants another baby."

What had he expected? The words of a scorned lover? Begging or belittling, pleading or insulting. Not this. Brendan sunk back down into his chair, shellshocked. He stared at Ben, hoping for elaboration yet fearing it at the same time.

"You see now. The new job and the new house were to go alongside beginning the adoption process. All of that was decided before you turned up."

"Fuck."

The word escaped Brendan's mouth before he could stop it. Ben slid a piece of paperwork from his pocket and pushed it in Brendan's direction. It was an official form, an acceptance of Ste and Ben's application for adoption.

"You're his past Brendan. Ste's unfinished business. It's natural for him to wonder what might have been. But me, the new baby. That's his future. You need to let him live his life."

Brendan's mouth was dry, and he coughed to clear his throat.

"Does Steven... does he know?"

"Not yet. The paperwork only came through two days ago... whatever he's promised you, he'll try to stick to it, because he doesn't like to let people down."

"Fucks sake, do you think I don't know that? Do you think I don't know him?"

Ben shrugged and retrieved the adoption letter, folding it carefully and placing it back where he had been keeping it.

"I just meant that when I tell him, when I show him this, he'll be conflicted. You need to help there Brendan. You said it yourself earlier, you should make things easier for the one you love. Ste's future is with me."

This time when Brendan stood up Ben did the same.

"Good chat," Brendan said, dismissing Ben without giving him any expectation of an answer. Shaking his head, Ben made his way to the door.

"Just think over what I've said Brendan. See you around."

For a long while Brendan stood like a statue, unable to move. The inevitability pressing down on him felt familiar, as if this was what he had been waiting for all along. For a brief moment in time Steven had been so close to being his, but all the while he had been holding his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. There was anger somewhere, lingering, but it was trapped behind a wall, unmovable. Brendan held his whiskey glass in his palm, feeling thw weight of it in his hand. With all the effort he could muster he flung it at the opposite wall, watching as the impact sent the glass exploding in all directions. Somehow it didn't make him feel any better.

* * *

 _'Come over when you finish x'_

 _"Brendan, that's the last. We okay to lock up?"_

 _He stands behind the bar at one of the tills, teaching Sophie to cash up. It's become an easier task since the last time Brendan was in this job; fewer people carried cash on a night out than they used to. They go through the motions; counting the denominations, writing down the amounts, checking the total against the print out. Tonight the count is accurate and he gives Sophie a quick glance of admiration._

 _"I was boss at maths at school. Only thing I was good at," Sophie explains in response to his look. As Stuart arrives back from locking the doors, Brendan gestures him over._

 _"Got a little Einstein on our hands here, make sure you put her on some close shifts next week."_

 _"Bloody hell, that was quick. Good job Sophie. You enjoyed your first full shift?"_

 _"It's gone dead quick. I did alright though, didn't I Brendan?"_

 _She looks up at Brendan, seeking approval, and he briefly rests a reassuring hand on her upper back._

 _"You're a natural. Now if you ladies can cope with finishing off here, I'm going to get going."_

 _"Sure thing boss. Want me to come in for the early delivery tomorrow?"_

 _"No, no need. I've got to finish some paperwork, so."_

 _It is bitterly cold when Brendan leaves the club to head across the high street towards Oakdale Drive. It causes him to break into a slight jog, cold breath is released as curls of vapour. The street is deserted and therefore quiet, so his footsteps seem to echo at an almost deafening volume. When he reaches Ste's door he rings the bell and jigs on the spot to dispel the cold, blowing warm air into the cocoon of his hands. Oddly there is no response, so Brendan rings the doorbell once more, pressing his finger to it for longer. This time he hears noise from inside, and finally Ste is standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes blearily. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, and Brendan realises that he has clearly woken him up._

 _"Brendan?" Ste says croakily, his forehead crinkled with confusion._

 _"You said to come over. I can go," Brendan says, pointing backwards. Ste shakes his head, trying to rearrange his hair which refuses to flatten._

 _"A normal person would of replied to my message so I'd know to wait up. What time is it?"_

 _He examines his watch; it's just after three._

 _"Steven, could we continue this conversation inside? I'm freezing my bollocks off here."_

 _"Can't have that can we?" Ste says with a little laugh, moving out of the doorway to let Brendan through. Brendan pauses in the narrow hallway, moving his hands up to Ste's neck, pressing their lips together. Ste tastes like sweet tea and the beginning of sleep; the shiver that passes through Brendan's body has nothing to do with the cold._

 _He has only been inside Ste's flat on one other occasion, because Ste always volunteered to come to Brendan's. While Ste disappears into the kitchen, Brendan takes the opportunity to look around the living room. There are Christmas decorations everywhere, no discernable colour scheme in evidence. The tree in the corner of the room is adorned with tinsel of all different hues, baubles caked in glitter dangling from the branches. Hanging from the fireplace mantel are four stockings, names embroidered in gold thread. Brendan smiles at the one clearly belonging to Ste, the word 'daddy' emblazoned on it; a relic from the time when the children were small._

 _Taking a seat on the couch, Brendan spots a pile of photographs on the coffee table. He picks them up and flicks through them. Ste closes the door, juggling a glass of whiskey and a mug._

 _"Do you want a coffee, or whiskey?"_

 _Brendan rests his chin on his shoulder as he watches Ste plonk himself down on the couch, holding out both drinks._

 _"Both sounds good."_

 _"Thought so," Ste says, smug satisfaction of knowing what Brendan wants evident on his face._

 _"You not having anything?"_

 _"Nah, just cleaned my teeth haven't I."_

 _Brendan hums in response and turns his attention back to the photographs. Ste drapes an arm around Brendan's neck and looks over his shoulder._

 _"They're Leah's. Most of them are selfies and stuff. There's some of you though, look."_

 _Ste grabs the stack out of Brendan's hand, shuffling through them until he finds what he is looking for. Brendan is momentarily caught off guard by the look of contentment on his face; he thinks this must be incorrect, that it must be a photo from another life. But sure enough these images have come from the lunch he had with the Hay children. Brendan had put up a half hearted protest, but Leah was insistent, snapping shots of them together as if he had always been there. As if they were family. The next one in the pile is not a selfie. In fact, Brendan does not remember it being taken. It is of both Ste and Brendan standing at the bar, Brendan's hand on Ste's. He recalls the interaction; Ste had gone up to pay and Brendan had jumped up to stop him, putting his hand over the money Ste was offering up. The moment Leah has captured shows them smiling at one another, eyes focused entirely on each other. It is curiously intimate, even though they are in a public place. Anyone who had seen them must have known there was more to their relationship than friends having lunch._

 _"Huh," Brendan mutters. Ste kisses his stubbled cheek affectionately; he too is mesmerised by the image in front of him._

 _"That's our future, right there," Ste murmurs in his ear, and Brendan's breath catches in his throat._

 _"What, having to wrestle money from your hand every time we go anywhere?" Brendan asks lightly to dispel the tension of the moment. Ste pushes him playfully._

 _"You have to let me pay sometimes Brendan. I'm independent, me."_

 _Brendan deposits the photographs to the coffee table and shifts his body towards Ste's, looking into his fierce and vulnerable eyes._

 _"I've never doubted that for a second Steven," he says, leaning in to kiss him, open mouthed, tongues massaging and exploring. Ste slides Brendan's suit jacket from his shoulders, and he pushes it on to the floor out of the way, careless of how it lands. In minutes they are naked and Brendan is on his knees next to his jacket, licking and biting his way up the soft skin of Ste's inner thighs. He sucks deeply, applying his teeth to the sensitive, rarely exposed flesh, marking his territory, and all the while Ste gasps and moans, gripping Brendan's hair in his fingers. He pauses for a moment, gazing up at Ste's aroused, flushed face._

 _"_ **This** _is our future Steven. Right here."_

* * *

 **A/N: Apologies for the slow update, as I found this one very tough to write. I have had the story planned out since I began writing, and I am getting to the darker events (not that this has been a light hearted romp at any point!). I want readers to enjoy this fic and am aware most people love Brendan and Ste together - including me, despite this story suggesting otherwise at times! All I can say is for those who have been following: thank you, and I hope that the heavy subject matter does not put anyone off, as I am so so grateful for the kind words about the story so far xx**


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Apologies once more for how long this has taken - the next update should be quicker, as much of it is already written. Thank you once more for reading and reviewing, I've said it before but I'll say it again - it is so nice to have people reading (and I hope enjoying) what I have written. I have a tentative plan to write a companion story to this, but from Ste's point of view, as it has occurred to me just how much there is to explore from his perspective, despite this being a piece primarily about Brendan. Please let me know if you think this is something that I should pursue.**

 **Back to the story at hand - I hope this chapter begins to tie the threads together for what comes next...**

 **Warning: angst, angst and more angst!**

27.

 _The first time Brendan encounters Walker he dismisses the whole sorry episode as a dream. His dreams are more vivid than they used to be; since the move to Smithlands the frequency of nighttime visits from Steven had increased greatly. In Brendan's experience the universe had a habit of seeking balance, so the dreams of Walker seemed to him a necessary price to be paid for having the blissful escape of Steven in his various forms a couple of nights a week._

 _The second time however is more of a challenge to Brendan's hypothesis. He returns to his cell after a particularly strenuous gym session, feeling a little faint after stupidly skipping breakfast. And there in the corner that is created by the junction between bed and wall, looking as though he has been there for hours, is Walker. He sits in a way that seems deliberately casual: one knee bent, an arm slung over it, his other leg out straight, hanging from the bed a little. Rather disturbingly Walker is wearing the clothes that he died in; Brendan knows this because try as he might, he has never been able to wipe that moment from his memory. There is an odd odour that accompanies Walker's presence; it stings Brendan's nose and leaves him fighting the urge to screw his face up in disgust._

 _Walker had been pale in life, but this version somehow goes beyond pale, as if his skin is almost translucent. He smiles a reptilian smile, regarding Brendan patiently._

 _"You seem surprised to see me," Walker begins, strange metallic tone to his voice. Brendan breathes heavily, as though he is still running on the treadmill. He leans against the cold bricked wall behind him, covers his eyes with his hands. Wake up, he thinks to himself. When he moves his hands away and opens his eyes again, his pulse rate rockets back up, because Walker is still there, hasn't moved at all. The only change is a slight widening of that awful grin on Walker's face, and he cocks his head to the side slightly._

 _"That won't help you know," he says cheerfully, and a strange high pitched note of hysteria is emitted from Brendan's throat._

 _"It's just a dream," Brendan says in an attempt to reassure himself._

 _"And yet, you're wide awake. Funny that."_

 _"This is insane."_

 _"You said it son."_

 _Brendan thinks about the many times in the past where losing his mind might actually have been welcomed. Too many to count. But now, with years still to serve of his sentence? His nerves are fraying; the ground beneath his feet does not feel as solid as it did before._

 _"You're not real."_

 _"So you keep saying, but here I am anyway."_

 _"What are you doing here?"_

 _"Now that is a leading question. What if I just felt like reminiscing with an old friend? For example, do you remember the time when we were fighting to the death and you pushed me in front of an oncoming train? Ah, those were the days."_

 _Brendan glares at the apparition, this figment of his overactive imagination. The reminder of his and Walker's last meeting is unnecessary. The incandescent horror of life and death, the relief of survival against the odds has never left him. It still figures heavily in his personal greatest hits collection of nightmares. The noise of the train's impact is always the thing that wakes him._

 _"I don't need reminding about you Walker," Brendan says quietly, anger rising._

 _"No, you don't do you? I already haunt your dreams. I did say I'd tear your world apart, and look how beautifully I've succeeded."_

 _Walker gestures around the sparse cell, satisfaction evident on his pallid face, causing Brendan to frown._

 _"You didn't land me in here. You didn't do this, I did. For Cheryl."_

 _"Ah yes, of course. Taking the rap for your sister after she got the chance to do what you always wished you were strong enough to do. All because she happened to see that little recording I left behind. If that wasn't my doing then I don't know what is."_

 _"Giving yourself far too much credit as always Walker. There was no way of you knowing that it would turn out the way it did."_

 _"No? Perhaps not. But the principle of cause and effect applies here Brendan."_

 _Brendan doesn't want to listen anymore, doesn't want to think about Walker and the complex history they share. Doesn't want to think about the trip to the holiday cottage with the man, because it reminds him of things he would rather forget: dismembering bodies and violent sex on a motel floor. And then the explosion, the discovery of Walker's duplicity. The injuries, the fear, the guns. Riley instead of Steven._

 ** _"Would you really have taken that bullet for me?"_**

 _The question hardly needed asking, the answer was always the same. He would always take the hit._

 _"Listen sunshine, I'm the reason you're here whether you want to admit it or not. And the funny thing is I'm not even your biggest demon. Let's not pretend you didn't get exactly what you deserved Brady."_

 _The dead face of Seamus Brady flashes before his eyes, and Brendan sinks down the wall into a crouch because he is unable to remain standing against the onslaught of memories. He holds his face in his hands until the noise of other prisoners filters into the room from the corridor. Startled out of his immersion in horror, Brendan looks up to find that his cell is empty once more. Walker is gone._

 _Except that he isn't, not really. Once he's back there, back in Brendan's head, there is no banishing him. Walker appears with increasing regularity to remind Brendan that he is of course irredeemable, damaged and broken._

* * *

The day that Warren returned was a bad day from the word go. Brendan hadn't slept, was too preoccupied after Ben's visit and the implication of his words about Ste. At some point though he must have drifted off, because he woke to the memory of Lynsey singing, dried salt tracks embedded into his cheeks. When he checked his phone that flashed impatiently on his bedside table, there were several messages from Cheryl, Anne and Ste. He locked the screen without opening any of them, deciding instead to get up and fling himself into a run.

People say that running is a form of therapy, but that morning it certainly didn't feel like that to Brendan. Running made him wonder if he could outrun his problems, escape them without consequence, if only he pushed hard enough. If he pushed hard enough then he could simply concentrate on the pain, concentrate on the burning in his chest and the building warmth inside his muscles. On this occasion though it just wasn't working, nothing was being blocked out. His footsteps hit the road more rapidly until he was practically sprinting. He wondered if he might be sick, and whether that might help. But when he came to a stop he wasn't sick, despite the waves of dizziness that left him bent double, hands bracketed on his knees, spitting breathlessly into the gutter.

Brendan showered with the same frantic intensity, scrubbing at his hot skin aggressively until it hurt. Afterward he sat for a long time on the edge of the bed, towel wrapped securely around his waist. His phone buzzed intermittently on the table, complaining about the ignored messages waiting on its screen. Brendan didn't want to speak to Cheryl, because that would mean pretending everything was okay and slipping into protective mode, and he didn't have the energy for that. He didn't want to speak to Anne, because that would mean divulging the truth, talking about what everything meant, and he wasn't ready to face that either. And as for Ste… Brendan didn't know what to say, where to begin. He _did_ know that it meant avoiding the Olive Press that morning, so Brendan put on his suit and headed for the deli instead.

In many ways the deli was unrecognisable from when it had existed as 'Carter and Hay' – the signage and colour schemes were different and the interior had been greatly altered. However, like everywhere else in the village, the ghosts from the time before lingered, and the presence of those dormant memories hit Brendan with full force as he waited in line to order coffee. This was unnecessary he knew; there were other places that served morning coffee and he didn't have to put himself through this. In some sick way though Brendan relished the pain he could inflict upon himself; it was working in a way that the running hadn't. He thought about the deli opening its doors for the first time, of Ste's proud defiance, whilst Brendan harboured his ownership of the business, ownership of Doug and more importantly Ste. He thought about Ste losing control, wrecking the place in his agony, Brendan having to hold on to him so tightly to stop him from hurting himself. Despite being nothing like Brendan, the realisation that Ste had also been scarred by his childhood experiences had left Brendan with the feeling that it was a bond they shared, something that Doug with his loving parents couldn't possibly understand. He thought about Doug returning to the village, and Ste's understanding towards him, his desire to avoid conflict.

 _"You see Steven? Small print. There's always small print."_

The children were Ste's achilles heel; Doug's attachment to them was endlessly sympathised with and accommodated. It was a constant source of insecurity for Brendan because he wasn't exactly a natural when it came to parenting. He remembered his terror at having so much to lose, his demand that Ste come clean about their relationship to Amy. Ste had been so angry.

 _"Don't make me choose between you and my kids Brendan right, because you will lose every single time…"_

He hadn't ever doubted Ste's words, had known that if he continued to push then he would indeed lose everything. That particular episode of self-destruction had been thankfully halted by Anne's intervention, but the awareness of how easily he could singlehandedly bring it all tumbling down around his ears lingered.

This time Anne was thousands of miles away, and he knew with a déjà vu like clarity what his next move was going to be. As he picked up his coffee carton he hissed at the scorching heat on his fingertips.

"I used to own this place," Brendan said, to no one in particular, or perhaps to himself.

When he reached the door to Nolans Brendan reached for his keys, only to realise that there was no need for the action: the door was slightly ajar. Frowning, Brendan used two fingers to push the door open further, peering into the darkness, senses hyper alert. There was that familiar electric hum from the fridges and the faint tang of lemon disinfectant from the previous night's clean down. Brendan tentatively made his way up the stairs, flicking on the lights as he did so. The office door, which was normally closed over, was ominously open. Brendan sighed and began mentally calculating the contents of the safe, wondering how damaging a break in would be. As he approached the office the safe came into view and appeared to be intact.

"Stuart?" Brendan called out, depositing his coffee on the bar. A shadow shifted at the office door, and out walked Warren Fox, looking very much as though he still owned the place.

"Wondered how long it would take you to show your face," Warren said, snide smile on his face that didn't reach his cold eyes. Brendan really did not want to display the shock he was currently feeling, so for the moment kept quiet. There was a long pause as the two men stood face to face, the distance between them creating rather than dispelling tension. Brendan flexed his fingers instinctively, anticipation of violence keeping the nerves in his body alert.

"Foxy."

Saying his name was a concession that seemed necessary. Warren's forehead raised, and he moved forward a little more into the light.

"You seem surprised to see me, but I did tell you I'd be back."

"You also told me that Joel was in on whatever this is, so forgive me if I don't exactly take your word at face value."

Warren laughed, an unpleasant sound that grated on Brendan and reminded him of times he'd rather forget. Warren being cheerful about something had never boded well for Brendan and their ever simmering feud.

"Yeah, that's right. Can't believe you fell for that to be honest. As if I'd trust that little runt with so much as a shopping list, never mind anything else."

Brendan's eye twitched reflexively. He turned away from Warren, grabbing his coffee and taking a long gulp. It tasted bitter on his tongue.

"Heard you encountered one of my acquaintances on the inside," Warren continued conversationally, moving towards the bar, making Brendan's whole body stiffen at the proximity. It's too early for whiskey, he said to himself. It was a sentence that was quickly becoming a regular mantra.

"Oh yeah? You'll have to forgive me once again Foxy, I'm shite with names."

Warren's lips curled menacingly.

"I have a feeling you'll remember this one. Matthew Wright?"

Brendan took an involuntary step back, instantly transported back to prison, back to a day which had started like any other but that had quickly descended into violence and madness. There was so much horror in Brendan's past, and sometimes this meant that memories blended and merged. He couldn't remember the lad's name, but he could remember his wrecked sobs and broken body, because he recognised them as his own. Wright's bones shattering under his fingers were the bones of his father. The moment that Brendan had looked into that face and seen Seamus Brady instead of some anonymous lowlife criminal was the moment he knew that there were some things that he was destined never to escape.

"How did you -"

Warren leant his heavy body against the bar, watching Brendan intently.

"Prison's great for networking, didn't you find?"

Brendan's eyes narrowed and he moved his face closer to Warren's in a well practised gesture of intimidation.

"You hear what I did to that scumbag? You hear about your 'acquaintance's' face after I'd finished with him?"

"Yeah, that I heard about. Months of reconstructive surgery and he'll still never talk proper again. Good effort."

"I'm capable of worse," Brendan sneered, flecks of spit hitting Warren's face. The other man remained impervious, simply smiling even wider.

"I heard that too. Danny Houston really was just the tip of the iceberg eh? Still, Wright's a mate of mine. He didn't deserve his face being smashed in."

"He's a rapist," Brendan spat. To his surprise, Warren laughed.

"Just like your daddy you mean?"

Brendan had pinned Warren against the bar before he could blink, fists full of Warren's jacket.

"What the fuck did you just say?"

"Oh come on Brendan, I mean let's be honest, it explains a lot doesn't it?"

"Where did you hear that garbage from, hmmm?"

"We both know it's not garbage. You know, you really should be careful who you make friends with, you never know who you can trust."

Brendan considered punching Warren just to make himself feel better, but decided against it, instead releasing his grip on the other man, forcing Warren back into the bar with a push as he did so. Warren stumbled before righting himself, and he dusted himself down in an exaggerated fashion.

"Hey, don't go blaming me for you being a bad judge of character. Least you know where you stand with me. You _know_ I hate you."

Agitatedly, Brendan paced the club floor, turning Warren's words over and over in his head.

"Someone has been talking to you... about me?"

"That's about the size of it, yeah. By the way, how is your lovely sister? And Steven, how's he?"

Brendan growled, slamming his fist down on to the bar aggressively.

"Don't concern yourself with them Foxy."

Warren shook his head, and leaned in towards Brendan so that their noses were almost touching.

"I'm not interested in them Brady, apart from them being close to you of course. My _only_ concern is bringing you down, and soon I'll have what I need to do just that. Keep an eye open for my contact, they're closer than you think."

Brendan watched Warren go, but as he descended the stairs and his laughter echoed towards the ceiling something snapped. He leapt down the steps two at a time, grabbing Warren from behind. The first punch he threw connected with the bannister as well as Warren's face, but that hardly mattered in the heat of the moment.

"Who've you been talking to?" Brendan snarled, pushing Warren against the stair rail. Warren spat out a little blood but continued to smile.

"You think beating me up is going to make me tell you?"

"It doesn't have to stop there, believe me," Brendan hissed.

"You want to be careful, any more dead bodies and they'll lock you up and throw away the key."

The second punch had more weight behind it and left Brendan off balance. As Warren dodged away he stumbled back, head hitting the stair rail. Brendan's world went black.

"Oh my god, Brendan?! Brendan, can you hear me?"

Brendan felt himself being shaken, his shoulders gripped by firm hands. For a moment he revelled in the familiar voice filled with worry, and the grip of those beloved hands, but the shaking jolted his head, sending pain shooting through him, causing him to wince.

"Brendan? Brendan please wake up."

He opened his eyes slowly, cautiously, and his reward for doing so was the sight of beautiful blue eyes framed with a delicate fan of eyelashes. His headache subsided for a time as he drank Ste in, a torrent of emotion evident on the other man's face.

"Brendan thank god. Should I call a doctor?"

"No Steven. I'm alright," Brendan said, struggling to pull himself up into a sitting position on the first step of the offending staircase that had left him in this position. He touched the back of his head gingerly. It was tender, but did not seem to be bleeding. Ste still held onto Brendan's shoulders, crouched in front of him, concern evident on his face. Brendan let out a long breath and touched his fingers to Ste's cheek, before brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead, watching Ste's expression soften.

"What happened?" Ste asked, catching Brendan's hands as he was about to withdraw it, examining the swollen and bruising knuckles with a frown. Brendan unconsciously looked around the club. It was as quiet as earlier, the hum of the fridges still the only sound breaking the silence.

"Someone broke in. I disturbed them. End of."

Abruptly Brendan stood up, pulling his hand away from Ste. The frown was deepening on the boy's face and Brendan couldn't look at him. The idea of lying to Ste was abhorrent, but Brendan couldn't think of an alternative, not with the truth being what it was. He made his way up the stairs, fingers clutching instinctively at the epicentre of the pain. He didn't care what time it was now; he was pouring a whiskey.

"Well you need to call the police Brendan, if there was a break in, don't you?"

"i'll sort it Steven," Brendan said dismissively as he crossed behind the bar and grabbed a glass. Ste stood on the other side, watching Brendan with the whiskey bottle disapprovingly but saying nothing.

"Did you hurt them?" Ste asked quietly, as though he was afraid of the answer. Brendan sipped at the whiskey, the alcohol stinging the inside of his cheek where he must have bitten into it as he fell.

"What? No, how could you ask me that?"

"So your knuckles just split themselves on fresh air did they?"

Brendan glanced down at the hand holding the glass, flexing the smarting skin instinctively.

"You'd rather I didn't defend myself Steven?" Brendan's voice was low, contemplative.

"No. No course not. But..." Ste paused and turned away from Brendan, trying to hide whatever it was that he was feeling. Sighing, Brendan left the safety of the bar, circling around Ste so that he was facing him once more. He put a finger underneath Ste's chin, tilting his face upwards, but Ste continued to avoid his gaze.

"But what Steven?'

He looked at Brendan then, raw pain in his eyes.

"You can't go to prison again. I couldn't do it, right, and I can't -"

Brendan pulled Ste into an embrace, cutting off the rest of the sentence. He held on tightly, unsure of who he was trying to comfort more. Brendan kissed Ste's soft hair and breathed him in deeply, attempting to get enough of him, knowing that that was an impossibility, that there was no such thing, that there would never ever be enough. Ste pulled away from Brendan's chest, lifting his head to kiss him deeply, and with so much passion that it took Brendan a few seconds to catch up with the change of pace. Ste was pushing the jacket from Brendan's shoulders, tongue licking into his mouth desperately. Brendan hesitated even as Ste began clumsily unbuttoning his shirt, fingers grazing over the cross nestled there. This need to consume each other, this frenzy and panic they inspired in each other: it was frightening. Brendan opened his eyes, catching sight of Walker's shadow in the darkness behind the bar. The shadow was shaking its head.

"You really going to break up his happy little family? Even for you, that's low Brady."

Brendan felt his shirt falling to the floor, felt Ste's hands on his skin, a hot mouth tracing his collarbone eagerly. He shook his head slightly.

"Just let me have this," he whispered, and Ste paused in his task, putting a hand up to Brendan's jaw.

"Who you talking to?"

Brendan glanced back towards the bar. The shadow was gone.

"Not talking Steven. Praying."

Ste gave him a look as though he'd grown an extra head.

"You're not normal."

"Never said I was," Brendan murmured, pulling Ste towards him, capturing his mouth once more. Ste pushed Brendan towards one of the couches, grabbing his shoulders with a surprising strength to maneuver him into a sitting position, before he stood upright and shrugged off his own clothes. Brendan was rendered breathless at the sight of him, and he drank it in, trying to commit every inch of soft skin and every freckle to memory. Too soon though Ste was on top of Brendan, sitting in his lap and grinding his hips against Brendan's still clothed groin. Brendan moaned low in his throat at the sensation and at Ste's face which was flushed with arousal, lips moist and eyes dark and unfocused. The throbbing in his head had receded, replaced by the more urgent ache of unfulfilled desire.

"In a hurry are you?" Brendan asked teasingly as he traced his hands along Ste's taut thighs. Ste grabbed one of Brendan's hands and moved it on to his cock.

"What do you think?" Ste said into Brendan's mouth, sucking on Brendan's lower lip.

It was difficult to focus on it being the last time. After all something in Brendan told him that it was likely to be the last time every time, because there was no way someone like him should have access to such unadulterated bliss. The idea of having this permanently had always seemed too wonderful to be true.

And if he was to choose a last time, would it have been this, a quickie in the club before opening hours? No, Brendan would have chosen to take his time, to have spent hours worshipping Ste's body, as he had on many occasions previously. But if he knew it was the last time, he would have been sure to inhale every bit of him, would lap up every drop of sweat, would dip his tongue into every crease, into the curve of his belly button and into the spaces between his toes. Brendan would have let him sleep for a little while, just so that he could take in the peace on Ste's face, and he would envy the dreamless rest. He wouldn't let him sleep for long though, he would have woken him with strokes and bites and grazes, would have made him cry with the potent combination of exhaustion and arousal; the only thing Ste would be certain of would be that if Brendan stopped touching him he would die.

It didn't happen like that of course. Instead, Ste made quick work of removing Brendan's trousers, sliding them down his legs with a dirty grin that made Brendan's heart flutter peculiarly. Ste took Brendan in his mouth with an assured, eager motion. Brendan wanted to watch, but wasn't sure he could, so he closed his eyes and laid his sore head back, concentrating only on the feeling of tongue lapping and teeth gently grazing. Ste was clearly impatient, because he didn't keep it up for long, returning back to his original straddling position, rubbing his arse cheeks over Brendan's cock teasingly.

Brendan tried to make it last. He gripped Ste's hips in an attempt to control his movements, but Ste kept batting his hands away, grinding down on Brendan to his own rhythm, chasing ecstasy single mindedly. Eventually Brendan gave in, closed his mouth over Ste's so that he couldn't tell whose moan was whose. It was often like this, mouths uncoordinated and urgent, Brendan swallowing Ste's increasingly frantic pants. When Ste came it was sudden, as though it had crept up on him, cock barely touched. Ste's slack mouthed cry spurred Brendan on, and this time when Ste quickened the pace he didn't try and stop him. As his own orgasm built, Brendan looked into Ste's eyes, and there was such longing there that when it hit him he moaned Ste's name with an uncharacteristic edge of desperation. Ste smiled, threading his arms around Brendan's neck and kissing him tenderly.

They stayed wrapped around each other, connected, for a long time. Brendan rested his forehead on Ste's, hand stroking his face softly.

"We need to get dressed Steven. Staff might talk if they turn up to work and find their boss like this."

"It would have worked for me," Ste said with a grin, but he moved off Brendan anyway, leaning to pick up some napkins from the table behind them. With a hasty clean up, the two men began to dress, distance between them once more. Once he had righted himself, Ste eyed Brendan warily, perhaps sensing the change in mood.

"I meant what I said before, you know. Don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you."

Brendan knew this was his opening, and he steeled himself for the task. Adjusting his collar so that it lay flat under his jacket, Brendan went to pour himself another whiskey.

"I'm sure you'd manage Steven. You have before."

Ste approached the bar with a frown.

"Here, what's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you have experience with moving on, I'm sure you could do it again if you put your mind to it."

"This isn't you still being pissed about Doug is it? Because I explained all that -"

"Douglas ain't my problem," Brendan said, casually sipping whiskey even though his heart was beating wildly in his chest.

"Then what _is_ your problem? We were fine five minutes ago."

Ste's voice had changed, hostility evident in every uttered syllable. Brendan had always admired the way that Ste could turn defence into attack, that he always seemed to have an answer for everything.

"Things change Steven. You've got to learn to roll with the punches."

Brendan meant it as a dismissal, but he also knew that Ste wouldn't let things lie there. As Brendan walked towards the office, he felt a hand on his elbow.

"No, you don't get to be like this now. Talk to me. What's going on in your head?"

A voice in Brendan's mind - it might have been Walker's, it might have been Warren's, hell, it might have even been Danny Houston's - forced him to keep going.

"Tell me something Steven, did you ever share with that posh boy of yours the reason for my being in prison?"

Ste let go of Brendan's arm abruptly, seemingly disarmed by the change in tack.

"I... what do you mean?"

"You know what I mean Steven, don't pretend to be a fool when you ain't one."

"I'm not -"

"Did you tell him about me and... Seamus?"

Ste looked for a moment as though he might deny it, but then he lowered his gaze in defeat, and Brendan felt the inevitable betrayal trickle through his veins.

"It wasn't for the reason you think Brendan," Ste said in a voice laced with panic. Brendan laughed harshly, snatching his hand away when Ste tried to take hold of it.

"Please enlighten me."

"Look right, you don't know what it was like, what people were saying. When I told him about you he heard a load of the rumours from other people, and a load of shit that just weren't true. So I told him - why it happened. So that he understood. I didn't want him to think you were a bad person."

'Why did you have to tell him anything? Why mention me at all Steven?"

"I couldn't just pretend you'd never existed!" Ste yelled with a heartbreaking cry. Brendan pressed his fingers into the bridge of his nose, not wanting to look at Ste, knowing that he'd give in and take him in his arms if he did.

"It wasn't your secret to tell," Brendan said wearily, walking away from Ste into the office. His mind was in turmoil. Warren's contact... could it be that it was Ben providing him with information? He certainly had the ammunition... and the motive. Brendan thought back to the previous evening, the exchange between Ben and Stuart. Stuart had been an employee of Warren before Brendan ever showed up - was it possible that he still held some loyalty to the previous owner? Ste appeared in the doorway, meaning that further consideration of Warren's informant would have to wait.

"He's been to see you hasn't he. That's how you know. He told you."

Brendan turned towards him, saw that Ste wanted to be angry, wanted to pin the blame on someone.

"Yeah he came to see me. Had ourselves a very illuminating chat."

Brendan was aware that his arms were flailing as he talked, fingers twitching with nervous tension. Ste took a step backwards as though he was frightened, as though aware of the unpredictability of the man in front of him.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, he told me a little fairytale you two had planned. Nice house, settling down with 2.4 children... didn't realise there was so much to congratulate you on."

Brendan's voice felt alien in his mouth, venom coating his tongue, but he was on a roll, self destruction button firmly pressed. Ste's expression shifted to something resembling relief.

"So that's what this is about. They were plans I made _before_ you came back Brendan. It's not something I feel good about, right, but... everything's changed now, hasn't it?"

"Has it?" Brendan asked, breathing heavily through his nose. Ste put a tentative hand on Brendan's chest.

"Yes," Ste said firmly.

"So you don't want children anymore, hmmm?"

Ste shrugged, but it was an unconvincing gesture.

'Well... I mean, not right now, but you never know, later maybe we could -"

"Steven, be realistic will you? This is something that can never happen. No court in their right mind would let a convicted murderer adopt a child. It's something I just can't give you."

Ste shook his head, paced across the room, agitation evident.

"It doesn't matter right, because being with you, that's what's important, not some silly idea I had months ago and that doesn't mean anything."

"Except it's not just a silly idea anymore," Brendan said quietly, causing Ste to cease his pacing.

"What?"

"He has the paperwork. You've been accepted to move on with the process. I've seen it with my own eyes Steven."

A muddled mixture of emotions played out on Ste's face and Brendan turned away, not wishing to intrude on Ste's indecision.

"Brendan..."

There were tears in Ste's voice. Brendan twisted back to face him at the plea, fingers braced on the desktop for support. Out of the corner of his eye Brendan could see Ste's distress, but he couldn't bring himself to look properly. Instead he focused on the desk, the filing cabinet, the plant that Cheryl had bought and placed in the corner to brighten the office up; anything to distract him from the real object of his attention. Brendan took a breath.

"I won't let you throw away the chance of another child Steven."

"You won't let me?" Ste asked hysterically, "it's my choice, right, mine and -"

"I should never have come back here," Brendan said more loudly, false confidence infecting his tone. Ste was on him then, suddenly in his space, gripping the hand that was balanced on the desk.

"No, you listen to me right, you don't get to do this to me. Not now. Not again."

"You're kidding yourself - _we're_ kidding ourselves. We can't work, it's too complicated."

"If I wanted simple would I fucking be here?" Ste was shouting now, grabbing Brendan's face in both hands as he did so. Brendan struggled for a moment, but when he caught the look in Ste's eyes he knew he had the opportunity to land the killer blow.

"Go back to your wee posh boy Steven, do us both a favour," he whispered, and Ste let go of him abruptly.

"You can't do this..."

"I just have," Brendan said dully, brushing past Ste to leave the office.

"You said you wanted everything. You said you loved me..."

"Love doesn't conquer all Steven. This isn't some romance novel where we live happily ever after in the castle on the hill. It's real life."

"Look, if you let me leave here now, like this, then it's over Brendan. For good. Do you hear me? Is that what you want?"

"It doesn't matter what I want," Brendan murmured. As he did so, the door to the balcony opened and Stuart strolled in, whistling cheerfully and jangling his keys in his hands. His light hearted entrance was so jarring when faced with the tension in the room that it brought Stuart to a swift halt, glancing between the two men uncertainly.

"Sorry gents, am I interrupting something?"

"No. Steven was just leaving. Weren't you Steven?"

Ste stared at Brendan for a long moment. When he finally pushed past Brendan and slammed the door behind him, Brendan let out a long sigh, letting the pain flood back through him as though it had never been away; the familiar ache in his chest was almost a comfort. He nodded tersely at Stuart before retreating back into the office, closing the door over firmly. Standing in the centre of the carpet, Brendan tipped his head back and relished the agony that was flowing through his bones. Once he threw the first file across the room, causing the glass in a picture frame to smash, the laughter began to accompany the sounds of destruction. By the time Stuart flung open the door the office was destroyed. Brendan stood in the middle of the chaos, hands clutching shards of glass and splinters of wood, blood dripping through his fingers. Everything was broken.


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: Warning: angst, violence and suicide (posts and runs for cover...)**

28.

Cheryl's boots crunched through the thin layer of brittle snow that had fallen over Hollyoaks village. She had to walk carefully to avoid the patches of ice that had hidden themselves on the pavement to trick unsuspecting pedestrians. She saw the notice on the door of Nolans from a long way off, leaving her normally cheerful face creased into a frown. As Cheryl stopped, she traced a gloved finger over the laminated sign that informed patrons of the sudden but necessary closure of the clubs for 'minor works to be carried out'. She rattled the handle of the locked door before giving it up as a futile task, instead stepping back carefully to peer up at the building. No signs of life. Cheryl's tilted face caught a spattering of tiny snowflakes; the weather had been threatening to take another turn for the worse and this was clearly the start of it.

Cheryl burrowed her face into her scarf, trying to protect her skin from the onslaught of the cold whilst considering her next move. There was a sense of foreboding in the air which had little to do with the snow filled clouds that hovered over the village. Making a decision to take shelter as the snow began to fall in earnest, Cheryl dipped into the coffee shop on the corner opposite the club. It was quiet – likely due to people avoiding the incoming blizzard – but was mercifully warm. Stepping up to the counter, Cheryl hesitated for a moment before ordering a hazelnut latte, pulling off her gloves to reach into her bag for her purse. The smell of coffee was comforting: it reminded her of her brother. Brendan had once bought her the combination in question, rather than actually asking her what she wanted as was often his way. Cheryl had grumbled at the time, but soon admitted to it being a favourite. Brendan, it turned out, knew her best.

She sat down at a table next to the window, sinking into an oak leather armchair, mug between her fingers, bestowing its homely warmth. Brendan knew Cheryl best, but it was beginning to seem to her that she was in fact oblivious to her brother's thoughts and feelings. It had been days since she had heard from him, despite innumerable phone calls, voicemails and messages. Brendan wasn't exactly renowned for his communication skills and couldn't be relied upon to offer a swift response at the best of times, but on this occasion the messages remained unopened, and now his phone was off. She had been irritated at first; typical of Brendan not to consider how she would feel about his lack of contact. Cheryl had thought about going to the club to confront him, but her stubborn streak had kicked in. Why should it always be her job to check on him?

Irritation turned to unease when Cheryl received a call from Joel asking if she had heard from Brendan. That evening she had visited the club and spoken with Stuart, who told her that Brendan was away on some sort of business trip. The vagueness of the explanation did nothing to settle Cheryl's anxiety. The following morning Stuart had messaged her to say that Brendan had asked for the club to be closed during his time away. Cheryl once again has the sense that something really wasn't right, and left voicemail after voicemail on Brendan's unresponsive phone.

As she sat watching the snow and sipping her coffee, Cheryl decided to try Ste again. His silence and reluctance to answer was an additional cause for concern. As his phone rang off yet again she wondered if there was room for an optimistic reading of the situation: perhaps Ste and Brendan had disappeared together, a happy ending of sorts after all. Cheryl considered the possibility for a moment. There was of course only one way to find out for sure. Bracing herself against the cold, Cheryl layered herself back up into her coat, scarf and gloves, venturing out into the unforgiving chill.

The Olive Press was open as usual, but unusually for a lunchtime only two tables were occupied. Cheryl shook the snow from her boots on the door mat, breathing in the smell of garlic and freshly baked bread that pervaded the restaurant. She approached the counter, where a young waitress stood, smiling warmly.

"Hiya love. I was wondering if Ste Hay is in today?" Cheryl asked, peering at the girl's name tag. Stephanie nodded, let out a little laugh.

"You Irish? I love that accent. One of my favourite customers sounds a bit like you – between you and me he is hot! I'll go see if Mr. Hay is free, he's just in the kitchens."

Brendan's handsome face popped into Cheryl's head, causing her anxiety to soar. What if something had happened to him? Voices filtered through from the kitchen, but when Stephanie returned it was alone, an apologetic look evident on her face.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Hay is really busy at the moment. If you want me to take a message I can –"

"No, sorry, but it's important I speak to him now. Just tell him it's Cheryl, and that I really need to talk to him about Brendan. Please."

Stephanie's eyes widened and a flush spread across her cheeks.

"You know Brendan? I didn't –"

Cheryl held her hand up reassuringly.

"He's my brother. And believe me love, it's not the first time I've heard it, don't worry."

Stephanie nodded, but disappeared back into the kitchen without a reply. This time when she emerged Ste was with her, wiping flour from his hands on a cloth that was draped over his shoulder. Cheryl smiled at her friend, but the smile was not returned. He frowned instead.

"Here Chez, I'm not being funny right, but can this wait until later? I'm dead busy me."

"Babe I'm sorry, I wouldn't interrupt you if it wasn't urgent. Can we talk somewhere private?"

Cheryl hoped her voice adequately conveyed her worry. It must have done, because after a beat Ste's face relaxed a little and he motioned for her to follow him into the back of the restaurant. Next to the kitchen there was a dry goods store room, and this was where Ste led Cheryl. She took off her gloves and stuffed them into her bag; when she was finished Ste was looking at her expectantly.

"Going to tell me what this is about Chez or what?"

"When did you last hear from Brendan?"

Ste shrugged, affecting nonchalance.

"Not sure."

It was Cheryl's turn to frown at Ste.

"Well was it today, yesterday, when?"

"Why does it matter?"

Cheryl groaned and threaded a hand through her damp curls to try and shake out the residual melting snowflakes.

"You two have been arguing again."

"It's over."

"Where have I heard that before?" Cheryl asked, sarcasm evident in her tone. Ste glanced at the half open door uneasily and pulled it further to.

"It is this time. His decision, not mine, so take it up with him."

"That's why I'm here Ste. I can't take it up with him, because he's disappeared. I thought that he might have been with you, but clearly not."

"Disappeared?" Ste repeated, disquiet flashing across his face before he had a chance to hide it.

"Yes babe, and I'm worried. The club's closed, his phone's off… I haven't heard from him in over a week. When did you last see him?"

"Ten days," Ste said almost instantly, as though he had counted every minute, every second, "I haven't seen him – spoken to him even – in ten days."

Cheryl's pulse rate soared, worry seeping from her very pores. She pulled her phone from her bag and stared at the empty screen accusingly.

"I'm going out of my mind love. I think something could be really wrong. Will you help me find him?"

Ste ran his hands over his face and through his hair, turning away from Cheryl.

"I don't… I don't think it's a good idea Chez."

"Why love?"

"I didn't think it was possible to feel like this again, didn't think he could break my heart again, but he's managed it anyway. If he's gone, well, maybe it's for the best."

Cheryl opened her mouth to respond, but before she could do so the door opened and in walked Leah, wearing chef's whites and a look of pure thunder.

"Dad, what are you playing at?"

Both Cheryl and Ste stood gaping at the new arrival.

"Leah – what – have you been listening?"

Leah rolled her eyes and folded her arms primly.

"Duh. I heard Steph mention Brendan and I wanted to know what was going on. You've got to help Cheryl Dad; you've just got to."

"It's not that simple sweetheart."

Leah looked between Cheryl and Ste calculatingly.

"I know you've been sleeping with Brendan, I'm not stupid."

"Oh Lord," Cheryl moaned as Ste yelled Leah's name in an affronted tone, guilt evident in the flush that was rapidly spreading across his cheeks.

"Oh please Dad, it couldn't be more obvious. You've been happier than I've ever seen you, going around with that goofy loved up grin on your face –"

Ste unbuttoned the top button of his chef's jacket, as though he was struggling to breathe. Cheryl remained quiet, hoping that Leah would do the job of persuading Ste without any input from her.

"Leah, I know you care about Brendan, but –"

"Yeah, I do. Same as you do Dad. You love him and he loves you, and if someone you love is in trouble, you help them."

Cheryl touched Ste's arm gently.

"Leah's right love. And I've got to be honest, I need all the help I can get. I really don't even know where to start."

For a moment Ste focused on Cheryl's hold on his arm, before sighing deeply and rifling through his trouser pocket, retrieving his phone.

"I might. Know where to start I mean. Mitzeee text me the other day, telling me I needed to talk to Brendan. I ignored it then, because I was angry wasn't I, thought she was just trying to get me to forgive him. But maybe she meant something else."

Cheryl gestured towards the phone in an agitated fashion.

"Well, what are you waiting for?"

Ste glanced at his watch.

"It's only like six in the morning there."

"Just send a text back," Leah said, grabbing the phone from Ste's grip and holding it in the direction of his face to try and unlock it.

"Give it here will you," Ste said, snatching the phone back from his daughter, and quickly rattling off a text, "there, done. Asked her to call when she's free."

Cheryl nodded, smiling sadly.

"Thanks babe."

"Don't thank me yet Chez, it might not help."

As Ste said this, his phone began to ring and vibrate in his hand. The three occupants of the store cupboard exchanged glances, fear evident on Ste's face. He put his phone on the edge of a shelf that was used to store flour, answering the call and switching to speaker phone.

"About bloody time," Mitzeee's voice echoed through the room as though she wasn't thousands of miles away, "how's Brendan doing? He isn't answering my calls – the cheek of it."

"Mitzeee it's Cheryl. I'm with Ste, you're on speaker. Can you tell me when you last spoke to our Bren?"

There was a hesitation on the other end of the line.

"Chez is with me because she's worried Mitz. No-one's heard from Brendan in over a week."

"Shit," Mitzeee murmured, almost to herself, "Ste, how much does Cheryl know? No offence meant, but I don't want to go giving away all of his secrets or anything."

"It's okay, I reckon she knows pretty much everything – but listen Mitz, my daughter's here too, so keep it PG please."

Leah folded her arms and rolled her eyes again, swinging herself up to sit atop the chest freezer she had been leaning against.

"Wow, talk about too many restrictions before I've even had my coffee. Okay, firstly, it hasn't been over a week for me, I spoke to Brendan like three days ago. The day I messaged Ste."

Cheryl breathed a sigh of slight relief. Three days was significantly better than ten.

"I thought you were going to tell me to forgive him. I couldn't – and I didn't want to speak to him."

"Well as it happens I _do_ think you should forgive him. You should know better than anyone that Brendan pushes people away because he thinks he's doing what's best, that he's protecting them. But that wasn't why I asked you to check up on him."

"What did he say Mitz?" Cheryl asked, impatient as she was for answers.

"He was in a right state. Not making much sense and rambling on. I thought he was probably drunk, seen him like that on too much whiskey, but he insisted he wasn't. Went on about how everyone was better off without him. I told him not to be so self-pitying of course, and to just speak to you, swallow his pride and all that. But it was weird, he wasn't really listening, started quoting the Bible at me. I said that it wasn't me he needed to be venting to, asked him about that shrink of his. He laughed at first, but then said he _did_ have someone to talk to, and that he'd go there."

"Father Des," Ste muttered, and Cheryl looked at him questioningly.

"His priest. Brendan laughs when I call him that, but that's how I think of him. He's the one that helped him years ago."

"Look guys, I can't pretend Brendan didn't worry me too, because he did, so I think it's important that you find him as soon as you can. Please Ste, let me know when you find him. Try this father you mentioned," Mitzeee's voice cracked a little over the speaker.

"We'll find him Mitz. We will."

* * *

When Cheryl and Ste arrived at the church it was already late afternoon, the spire standing out against the heather grey heaviness of the clouds. The snow had mercifully ceased, although the flakes that had fallen had stuck to the ground, leaving the churchyard startlingly white against the rough stone exterior of the building. The graves blanketed with snow in uneven rows made Cheryl shudder, reminding her of those she had lost that now slept below ground.

It had been a quiet drive; both of the occupants of the car had been lost in their own thoughts. Ste had argued with Leah before they left the restaurant, with Leah begging to go with them but Ste ultimately refusing. The confrontation with his daughter appeared to have exhausted him; when Cheryl glanced over at Ste in the passenger seat he had his eyes tightly closed, head tilted against the headrest. Cheryl had been glad of the distraction that driving afforded, but as they pulled up to the rectory she had become aware of her anxiety building, uncertain that she could cope with anything that wasn't good news.

Ste pressed his finger onto the doorbell of the rectory, quickly stuffing his hand back into the pocket of his tracksuit top to try and stave off the cold. It didn't take long for the door to be opened to reveal the kindly face of the priest, an aura of welcome radiating from his person. His eyebrows lifted in surprise and recognition when he caught sight of Ste.

"Steven, what a pleasant surprise. Please, come in, can't have you freezing on the doorstep."

They stepped gratefully into the homely warmth of the hallway, shedding their outer garments onto the coat rack, before being led into a cosy, well-lit sitting room. Cheryl held out her hand to the priest by way of introduction.

"Father, my name is Cheryl Brady –"

"Cheryl, so nice to finally meet you. I hope you don't mind my saying that I have heard an awful lot about you."

Ste and Cheryl took a seat on the couch that Father Des gestured to, while he sat across from them in an upright armchair near the bars of the electrical fire that was glowing in the hearth.

"Well, I'm sure it comes as no surprise to you that we're here about Brendan, Father."

Sitting forward a little, Father Des clasped his hands in front of him.

"I suspected as much. Before we go any further, can I get either of you anything? Tea? Coffee? I've also got a huge variety of biscuits on offer. In my line of work there's no such thing as too many biscuits."

Ste shook his head firmly.

"No ta. We need to ask you if you've seen Brendan recently. We're… well…" Ste paused, unable to find the words. He looked to Cheryl for help.

"We're concerned Father. Brendan's been out of contact, and while it isn't the first time, it's been over ten days now without a word. We spoke to one of his friends and we're trying to retrace his steps, thought he might have been here to have a wee chat with you. Anything you could tell us would be helpful."

Father Des sighed tiredly.

"Brendan seems to have a talent for causing those who care about him many a sleepless night."

"You've got that right Father," Cheryl said with a little laugh.

"I'm afraid that what I have to tell you may not help with putting your minds at ease."

"You've seen him then?" Ste asked, eyes wide and alert. Father Des nodded.

"He turned up – was it three days ago? On the doorstep, unannounced of course. I was glad to see him, but it was clear almost immediately that there was something very wrong…"

* * *

 _The ghosts are closing in. He feels oppressed by the knowledge, claustrophobia settling on his skin like a layer of dust. There seems to be an inevitability to what will happen next: he will lose everything, and he will let it happen. Will **make** it happen. Sand through the gaps in his fingers. There is a perpetual sickness lingering in his gut; in his head. It is spreading. _

_The club is making it worse. Shadows are around every corner, waiting to pounce in the shifting shapes of those whose deaths he is responsible for. Walker. Danny Houston. Even Riley Costello, with his hangdog eyes that women seemed to fall for and sporting an elegant bullet hole through his chest._

 _He leaves the club to seek sanctuary elsewhere. At the cemetery he sinks to his knees at Lynsey's grave, puts his hands against the marble tablet, allowing the chill of the stone to burn through his fingers. Rain falls. Or is it snow? Sleet then, sleet falls, lands on his leather jacket with splashes that echo in his head. He likes the rain. It is comforting. He told someone that once. Who was it? Time is blurred at the edges, dizziness washes through him, accompanied by a wave of panic. Why isn't there music? He rests his cheek on the slab, tries to quiet is breathing, tries to hear, but there is nothing. There is nothing because this is_ _not a dream and in reality Lynsey is gone. There are no ghosts here, or at least, none of his ghosts, which seems ironic in a cemetery, but there it is. The grounds are silent. The one ghost he truly craves a visit from is resolutely remaining at rest. It is making him desperately lonely. Why will she not come to him like all of the others? He wonders who can help him, who can cure him of this crushing isolation. He prays for an answer, and it comes to him in a flash, inspiration, like lightning..._

* * *

"Brendan was agitated. It was clear he'd been out in the bad weather because his clothes were wet and he was shivering. I made him sit by the fire, forced him to drink some tea, but the shivering just wouldn't stop. At first I thought he was delirious. He kept asking strange questions, and as the conversation went on I suspected that something had happened to leave him disturbed. I suggested that he sought medical help. Thankfully he agreed to it easily enough. He gave me the number of his therapist and I made him an appointment. When he left he seemed to be calmer, and I hoped he would return afterwards. Now I'm wondering if I should have asked him to stay here…"

Father Des trailed off, staring into the incandescence of the fire. Cheryl noticed that Ste looked pale, as though something had spooked him.

"What were he talking about? That made you so worried I mean?" he asked, getting the priest's attention once more. The older man, far from the smiling welcome from earlier, now wore a deeply troubled expression.

"He was talking about being visited by the dead."

A heavy silence filled the room.

"He seemed like he was getting better…" Cheryl said thoughtfully. Ste shook his head almost immediately.

"There was something up the last time I saw him. Found him passed out in the club – he said there'd been a break in, that he'd stopped them. He was weird afterwards – well, weirder than normal. He was talking to himself, said he was praying."

"A break in?" Cheryl asked, "strange. Stuart never even mentioned it. I really thought that coming back to church regularly would help Bren, it did in the past."

"Perhaps I could speak with the priest at Brendan's current parish, see what impression he has of Brendan's state of mind. Do you know which church he's been going to?"

"Eh? He's been coming here hasn't he?" Ste asked, voice rising through the pitches in panic. Solemnly, Father Des placed a hand meant to comfort over Ste's.

"I'm sorry Steven. Brendan has only been here twice – once in December, and once three days ago. On his first visit I suggested attending communion as a way of promoting some spiritual healing, but when he didn't appear I assumed he had chosen somewhere nearer to Hollyoaks."

A single tear escaped Ste's eye. Cheryl didn't think that any words of hers would help, somehow everything that occurred to her seemed trite and meaningless.

"He said he was coming here. Why would he lie?"

"I don't know. He must have had his reasons Ste love. Maybe we should go and see his therapist, it sounds like he might be the one with the answers."

"Please let me know when you find him Cheryl. I will pray for his safe return," Father Des said, rising from his seat.

"Going to take a bit more than prayers," Ste snapped abruptly, crossing the room and slamming the door behind him. A moment later Cheryl heard the telltale click of the front door shutting.

"I'm sorry Father, Ste's really shaken up by all this. We both are. We just want to find Brendan."

"I understand Cheryl, and there's no need to apologise. Please look after that young man, his eyes are so full of pain."

"I'll certainly try."

When Cheryl returned to the car, Ste was already ensconced in the passenger seat, chin tucked inside the neck of his hoodie. His phone had been placed on the dashboard, where it was buzzing persistently. Ste was resolutely ignoring it.

"You going to answer that?" Cheryl asked, throwing her bag carelessly onto the back seat.

"It's Ben," Ste murmured, twisting his body in his seat away from Cheryl to stare out of the window, avoiding eye contact.

"You should still answer it babe."

"And say what Chez? Where would I even start eh?"

"At least send him a message, let him know you're okay. You of all people should know how important that is."

Ste sighed, a long shuddering painful sigh that suggested he was crying.

"Fine," he muttered, grabbing the phone and stabbing at the screen aggressively.

The journey through Chester was another silent one.

* * *

 _He lies in the bed that isn't his, staring at the back of a man who isn't Steven. A blanket of self loathing is wrapped tightly around his body, constricting his airways and threatening to envelope him completely. Lightly he traces his fingertips over the other man's skin; its texture has an otherness to it that he doesn't recognise. Alien. Wrong._

 _At some point during the night he must have managed to drift off, because the next thing he registers is the feel of hands pressed firmly onto his tense shoulders, and he is upright in the bed, ice cold sweat coating his neck and torso. His heart rate is through the roof, and he puts a shaking palm to his chest, feeling the flutter of the panicked muscle against his ribcage, a trapped hummingbird desperate for its release._

 _"You're okay. You're okay. You were shouting in your sleep again."_

 _Brendan knows he has been shouting, as his throat is tender, hoarse. What he was shouting about is vague, covered with an impenetrable fog in his mind. The word 'again' catches, snags at the thread of his memory, fraying his sense of self. He knows it's correct, knows that this is hardly the first time he has woken in response to an unnamed terror, but something doesn't sit right._

 _He never wakes up shouting, sweating, shivering - never does any of this when he sleeps next to Steven._

 _It takes time for him to calm down. Out of the corner of his eye he is certain that he can see the ghosts that have been following him, lingering patiently in the shadows. This awareness renders him hyper alert, making sleep totally impossible. Brendan lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for light to filter into the room, the signal of daytime and the relief it affords him from nightmares._

 _It is still mostly dark when the alarm on the opposite bedside table sounds. Brendan watches Mark as he pulls himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, draining a glass of water. He notices the bruises blooming on Mark's back, vivid enough to stand out even in the dim light of almost dawn. He knows he should feel guilty - he had been rough, almost frenzied in his use of Mark's body the evening before. He had held him so tightly that Mark was unable to move, forcing him to remain on all fours, forcing his head down, because Brendan hadn't been at all interested in any intimate interaction of any kind._

 _When Mark returns from the bathroom he is wrapped in a towel, surprise on his face when he notices Brendan has propped himself up against the headboard with a pile of pillows._

 _"Didn't think you'd be awake for a while yet."_

 _Brendan folds his arms across his chest protectively._

 _"Sorry... you know, about -"_

 _"Forget it, it's fine," Mark says with a shrug that is meant to be casual, meant to show that he hasn't been affected by Brendan's behaviour. It comes off as unconvincing. He turns towards the wardrobe and drops his towel to the floor. It isn't a gesture designed to be arousing, it is too... domestic. Brendan feels a bubble of anger rise to the surface and he looks away, thinking through the questions that have been turning over and over in his brain all night._

 _"Tell me something, doc. What is your connection to Warren Fox?"_

 _Mark pulls on boxer shorts, grabs a pristinely ironed shirt from a hanger._

 _"Warren Fox...remind me?"_

 _"You're playing dumb? That's cute doc, but seriously."_

 _Mark threads a silk tie around his neck, turns back to Brendan as he loops the material into a knot._

 _"Not really got time for your riddles this morning Brendan. Can you save us both some time and just get to the point?"_

 _"If you haven't got the time now then perhaps it's best I make an appointment," Brendan says testily._

 _"Ah. About that..."_

 _"Yeah?"_

 _Mark folds his collar down, sits on the edge of the bed once more, this time fiddling with the buttons on his shirt cuffs._

 _"It's not possible for me to keep being your doctor Brendan. I've asked the clinic to assign a suitable replacement to your case."_

 _Brendan nods, but doesn't really take in Mark's words. Mark knows everything. He can't just be allowed to exist in the world with armfuls of Brendan's secrets, ready to be sold to the highest bidder. If there was no professional interest, how could he be sure of Mark's motives? His suspicions that the man might well be Foxy's informant grow with every second that passes._

 _"I can't have another doctor," Brendan says, more to himself than to Mark. Mark misunderstands Brendan's meaning; his face softens and he shuffles nearer to Brendan on the bed._

 _"There isn't any other option. Your sister has me backed into a corner."_

 _"Chez? What's she got to do with it?"_

 _"She knows... about this. Us."_

 _Brendan has to stop himself from shuddering at the implications of that particular pronoun._

 _"She suspects. She doesn't know anything."_

 _There is guilt on Mark's face and Brendan realises that it is too late for any damage control._

 _"Have you been indiscreet doc?" he sneers, extending the syllables on his tongue like the hiss of a cobra._

 _"It's probably for the best anyway don't you think? It means we don't have to hide anymore."_

 _Brendan unfolds his arms, looks contemplatively at Mark's earnest face._

 _"What's on your mind doc?"_

 _Mark reaches out, tentatively placing a hand gently on Brendan's bare chest._

 _"We could try and make this work for real. We could be together properly."_

 _Brendan can't help the bark of laughter that erupts from his throat._

 _"Oh... you're serious..."_

 _Mark snatches his hand back as though he has been stung._

 _"Why not? What's so ludicrous about the idea of a real relationship?"_

 _Brendan hears echoes of Walker's laughter in his head and he tries to shut the sound out. He runs a hand through his wayward hair; it is too long and needs cutting. He knows he is attempting to distract himself from the question that Mark has put on the table: Mark, who is watching and waiting calmly for a response._

 _"What can I tell you doc? Proper relationships and me... we're not comfortable bedfellows."_

 _Mark's face hardens, eyes filling with ice. He stands up abruptly, increasing the distance between them._

 _"It would be a different story if my name was Steven though, wouldn't it?" he mutters, reaching into the wardrobe for his suit trousers._

 _"What did you say?" Brendan asks, voice low, dangerous. He too gets up from the bed, gathering up his discarded clothing from the floor and dressing hastily._

 _"Well, this 'I can't do relationships' thing, it's bullshit isn't it? What it's really about is the fact that you're in love with someone that you can't have, and everyone around you has to suffer because of it."_

 _Brendan pauses in the act of buttoning his jeans._

 _"That's not - that's -"_

 _"You were calling his name!" Mark yells, temper lost, startling Brendan a little because Mark does not shout. The doctor breathes out heavily, seemingly to collect himself._

 _"In the middle of the night, when you woke shouting and I had to hold on to you until you stopped shaking. You were tossing and turning and saying his name over and over."_

 _Brendan can't place the nightmare. The graveyard? The snow globe and the hangman's noose? Or some other incarnation of his deepest fears? It seems he can no longer distinguish between them._

 _"Steven isn't anything to do with this," Brendan says, gesturing between himself and Mark. He isn't even convincing to himself._

 _"Except he is. I mean, I can see why, he's an attractive bloke. But he can't make you happy Brendan, not in the long run. He can't hope to understand you like I can."_

 _Brendan sees now the result of his reckless behaviour. It is all coming to fruition in front of his very eyes. Mark harbours feelings that have no place in Brendan's understanding of their liaison; feelings that are written all over his earnest face. There is a vulnerability there that Brendan never thought he'd see on the normally pragmatic countenance of his therapist._

 _"I'm not someone you want to have feelings for doc. Trust me."_

 _"Well it's too fucking late!" Mark's cheeks flush; he is angry and ashamed. Brendan extends a hand, his middle finger pressing lightly on Mark's chest. He hesitates, cocks his head a little, but knows he must say the words he struggled to say for so many years. He has always been good at delivering agony to another person, it is something he excels at. He knows exactly where to land the blow._

 _"Doc, Steven is the **only** one who understands. Because I have loved him forever. It's not something that can change, and it's certainly not something that **you** can change."_

 _"They're your feelings, not his."_

 _Brendan lets his hand drop, shrugs his shoulders._

 _"Doesn't matter."_

 _"He'll never leave that guy he's with. Not for you Brendan, and you know it, or else you wouldn't be here."_

 _"And what do you mean by that doc?" Brendan asks through gritted teeth. Mark closes the distance between them, his face close to Brendan's, expression twisted into a heartbroken snarl._

 _"You have been here, fucking me, when you're in love with someone else. And that's not even the start of it. You are screwed up, a complete mess - you know it, and I know it. Why would someone like him, who's whole and normal want someone who is broken beyond repair?"_

 _The world turns a deep crimson. This is always how it ends. Violence is always the answer to the question Brendan has been asking himself since day one..._

 _His knuckles sting with ecstasy._

 _The ghosts watch from the sidelines, nodding their silent approval._

* * *

Cheryl wasn't sure how to feel when they reached the therapist's office in the middle of Chester later that afternoon only to be told that Doctor Phillips wasn't actually in work. The receptionist was either unsure of or unwilling to share the date of the doctor's return, or the reason for his absence. Cheryl felt as though her and Ste were in the eye of the storm; there was an ominous, unsettled air surrounding them and their interactions reflected this.

"What do we do now Chez?" Ste asked, leaning against the reception desk as though he lacked the energy to hold himself up. Cheryl thought she could empathise. Emotional exhaustion crept around her like a predator stalking its prey. Her gut instinct was that Brendan must have seen the doctor, despite his unavailability at work, though she couldn't explain why she felt so certain. She remembered that Father Des had said he had rang Mark for Brendan - perhaps he still had a copy of the number.

"I have an idea," Cheryl said, turning away from the unhelpful receptionist and pulling out her phone in order to contact the priest.

It was getting dark. Ste was quiet and withdrawn as they both kept vigil over Cheryl's phone that was now balanced on the car dashboard. Despite the heaters being turned up to full blast, there remained a chill in the car's interior.

"I'm supposed to be at work in an hour, me," Ste said dully. Cheryl broke her gaze away from the phone momentarily.

"Do you need me to take you back?"

Ste shrugged.

"Doesn't matter now. I asked Jerry to run the service if I weren't back. Not as if I could concentrate now anyway. It's just -" he paused as though uncertain of how to continue.

"Go on," Cheryl prompted gently.

"He's not even here and he's managing to turn my world upside down. Running the kitchen, it's what makes sense when nothing else does. It's an escape, you know?"

Cheryl nodded. That yearning for normality - that was something she understood alright. Ste was watching her in the dusky light, and there was an unmistakable panic in his eyes.

"What if something's happened to him?" Ste whispered, the horror of the thought almost too awful to voice out loud. Cheryl considered being her usual positive self, considered telling Ste that it would all be okay, but if she was truthful she wasn't sure she believed that. Instead she reached for one of his hands and held it in her own.

"Then we'll get through it babe."

Cheryl's phone pinged loudly to announce an incoming message. She read the contents through twice, then offered Ste a weak smile.

"We have an address. Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

Brendan had always tested Cheryl's capacity for shock, and it seemed that even when he was absent he was still capable of pushing her to the limits. When Mark came to the door clutching his side with a pained expression, sporting an impressive black eye and split lip, she was aware of Ste's sharp intake of breath beside her. Cheryl herself somehow remained impassive: her brother would have been proud.

"Can we come in please Doctor Phillips?"

"Did he do this? Did Brendan..." Ste asked, ignoring Cheryl's question. It seemed he couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. Mark's damaged features contorted in surprise.

"What? This? No. I was... mugged. On my way to work this morning."

"I was mugged too. Years ago. A few times actually," Ste said thoughtfully. Cheryl glanced at him; it was clear he didn't believe Mark, that he was reliving the time before, when Brendan's only way of expressing his feelings has been through using his fists. She repeated her request to be invited in. Mark stood firm, blocking the doorway, his breath coming out in ragged clouds of vapour in the chilled evening air.

"What do you want Cheryl?"

The response was cold and obstructive.

"I want to know when you last saw Brendan. We were told he had been in contact with you."

"Can't help you I'm afraid. I'm not his doctor anymore. I suggest you take any concerns you may have to Doctor Sumner at the practise. Or failing that to the offender rehab team."

"Haven't you been his doctor for over a year? How can you have abandoned him when he needs you the most?" Ste burst out, a desperate expression on his face. Mark laughed, a nasty, abrasive sound.

"Steven - can I call you that?"

"It's Ste."

"Fine... Ste. Your loyalty, it's very admirable, but misplaced. Brendan doesn't need anyone to fight his corner. He's beyond help. Do yourself a favour and realise it now, before it's too late."

"Even more reason why you shouldn't just palm him off on another doctor. Look, I know better than most that he does really stupid things sometimes, but -"

"Save your breath Ste, I'm not interested."

Cheryl held up a hand to interrupt.

"Hold on, what did you mean just then - about Bren being beyond help?"

Mak sighed, touching a hand delicately to his half closed eye.

"if you must know, I'm fairly certain that Brendan is headed for a psychotic break. Most likely he's stopped taking the medication that's been prescribed to him because he thinks he can make himself better. He can't."

"What exactly are you basing this theory on?" Cheryl asked, the fear in her stomach raising her voice and adding aggression to her tone.

"He's deeply paranoid. Talking about people who have long been dead. Talking to them. Erratic, impulsive behaviour. He's no good to anyone in the state he's in,' he said, directing the last statement towards Ste.

"Did you tell him that Doctor Phillips?" Cheryl asked quietly. Mark shuffled his feet on the doormat uncomfortably.

"What?"

"Did you, his doctor, tell my emotionally unstable brother that he was no good to anyone?"

Mark looked at the ground. His silence was all the admission of guilt Cheryl needed.

"And did you say that to him before or after he did that to your face?"

"I can't remember..." Mark whispered.

"You what? How could you do that eh? You're supposed to be the one helping him!" Ste's outright anger was a contrast to Cheryl's silent fury.

"I know," came the reply. When Mark looked back at Cheryl there were tears on his swollen, bruised cheeks.

"If anything happens to Brendan, then it's on you. I hope you know that," she said, feeling her hands close into fists of their own volition. She did have Brady blood in her after all.

"You're helping us find him," Ste said in a tone that brokered no compromise.

"Have you tried Chez Chez?" Mark asked, following Ste and Cheryl down the snow laden path towards the car.

"You mean Nolans," Ste said, opening the back passenger door to indicate Mark's seat.

"You can call it that if you want, but to Brendan it will always be Chez Chez. A name change and a face lift were never going to cut it," he looked at Ste meaningfully, "besides, it's where all of his ghosts live."

The three climbed into the car, Cheryl threading her seatbelt into its slot.

"It was locked earlier, and I haven't got a key."

"I have," Ste said timidly. He reached into his pocket and brought out a bundle of keys, quickly selecting the right one and holding it up.

"Should've given it back really, but..."

Cheryl knew why Ste hadn't returned the key without him having to explain himself. Just like always, it wasn't over for Ste, would never be over for him, despite his protestations to the contrary. She flicked the headlights on, as the darkness around them was now complete, and headed back for Hollyoaks village.

* * *

The village was quieter even than it had been earlier in the day. Cheryl dropped Ste and Mark at the entrance of Nolans while she parked the car. Watching them through her rearview mirror, she realised with a sense of foreboding that Ste had no need of his key: the door was already ajar. As she got out and headed to the club it was as though she was experiencing the world in slow motion. Ste's cries seemed distant as she made her way through the door and up the dimly lit staircase, as though she was hearing them from deep underwater. Cheryl stood frozen midway up the steps, unable to go any further, paralysed momentarily by the knowledge that she was about to be confronted by something awful.

Bracing herself, Cheryl reached the top of the stairs and sure enough was greeted by a tableaux of violence. There was glass everywhere, it crunched underfoot, and the sting of spilt alcohol burnt her nose. And blood; so much blood haphazardly discarded across the counter, all over the floor. Mark stood amidst the chaos, murmuring urgently into his phone. Ste knelt on the floor. He had pulled Brendan into his lap, who was struggling feebly against the hold. Brendan, who was unnaturally pale, lay with a streak of fresh blood swiped across his cheek. Cheryl stared, unable to register the things displayed in front of her.

"Cheryl, help me stop the bleeding. Chez please!"

Ste's panicked pleas broke through the fog, and Cheryl crouched next to him and Brendan, who had ceased his struggle and was now lying too quietly in Ste's arms.

"Where is it all coming from?" Cheryl questioned frantically, but then she knew, because she noticed that Ste's hands were clamped around Brendan's wrists, blood discolouring his joints and fingernails, accompanied by the scent of iron and life ebbing away.

"The ambulance is on its way. Let me look at him," Mark said, voice trembling.

"You don't get to touch him," Ste cried fiercely, clutching onto Brendan more tightly.

Ste, he's a doctor. Let him help."

Ste relented, releasing his hold on Brendan's forearms but otherwise remained unmoving, stroking Brendan's face urgently as Mark got to work trying to minimise the damage.

"Don't you dare die on me you bastard. Do you hear me? You don't get to do this to me, you just don't Brendan, okay?"

Cheryl became aware of her face being wet as she watched Mark's deft fingers and listened to Ste's increasingly desperate lament, and realised she was silently weeping. She couldn't look directly at Brendan and Ste, it was too horrible, and so she watched bandages wound as though they were separate from the scene, white swiftly being stained red.

"You don't get to do this to me. I can't live in a world without you in it Brendan. I thought you knew that..."

Brendan's eyes fluttered open, but it was clear that he was somewhere else, already halfway to another place entirely.

"Brendan? What are you saying? Chez, what's he saying?"

Brendan's grey face was twisted in pain, struggling to get his words out.

"The man had killed the thing he loved, and so he had to die..."

After that he fell silent, his body limp as a ragdoll. That was when Ste started to scream...

* * *

 _Fighting was futile. Time to face the inevitable. Step up and be a man. Broken. Broken. Broken. What use is a broken thing to anyone? How does it hold its value, how can it be put to task? What use is something that is shattered on the floor, beyond repair?_

 _Best for everything and everyone to begin anew. Picking up the pieces, trying to glue them back together would be a waste of time._

 _The ghosts agree. They have multiplied in the days since he has been away to include those that don't belong at the club. Joel's waste of space stepfather. Nana in her nightgown. And now Seamus, the most unwelcome ghost of all, has joined the ranks. The sneering, snarling derision is more than he can bear._

 _So he decides not to bear it. He picks up some of the shards of broken glass, looks into them and thinks he can see Steven's face, Cheryl's face; the people who love him, whose lives are left in disarray because of him. He sighs with relief as the skin is pierced. He has control._

 _The flow of blood is calming, it mutes the ghosts and their endless chatter. He holds onto the bar, and then when he is weaker allows himself to sink to the ground, feeling the remnants of whiskey and vodka bottles stab through his clothing. Seamus says that he is weak, calls him Brenda, calls him a wee girl. He struggles to stand up, to prove him wrong, but something warm and comforting holds him in place, and his eyes close as if in sleep, the voice of his father drifting away once more._

 _When he opens his eyes again, Steven is there, and he wonders if this is heaven, but it can't be, because it isn't what he deserves, and because Ste's face is blotchy and tearstained. He has to tell Ste why, has to make him understand. He thinks of a book he read in prison, Oscar Wilde's words indelibly printed in his mind. He remembers how it had resonated then, and what it meant now._

 _"The man had killed the thing he loved, and so he had to die..."_

 _He isn't sure whether he says the words or only thinks them, isn't sure of anything anymore. Darkness rises, and the pain ceases._

* * *

 **A/N part 2: Originally this was written to be in two sections: one with Cheryl's POV, one of Brendan's. I decided to combine it, which is why it has taken so long to post, but I'm not sure if this was the right decision! I hope that I have given enough hints that this was coming, because I would hate to think it came out of nowhere to anyone reading.**


	29. Chapter 29

29.

Ste sits in a hospital waiting room, an unfortunately familiar position, or so he feels. He thinks about the hours he has spent on either side of the coin: waiting, or being waited on. It must add up to days, weeks even, experiencing that weird limbo that hospitals specialise in.

The relatives room he currently inhabits is a small one, more of a side room, with neutral flocked wallpaper and generic prints lining the walls. He is the only occupant. It is dimly lit to encourage dozing, benches with the armrests removed line the walls. Ste hasn't even considered sleep. He had been deposited in this room much earlier by harried but understanding nurses. Cheryl had been with him then, though she isn't now. Ste knows they must have had a conversation at some point, but it has disappeared out of his head and besides, he finds that being alone isn't entirely unwelcome.

The staff had given him scrubs to change into, as his tracksuit was ruined. The top in particular had been stained, and the material had stiffened uncomfortably as the blood had dried up. Cheryl had changed almost instantaneously; it was clear that she did not relish the reminder of the night's events. Ste had hesitated; it felt callous somehow to dispose of the clothes he had been wearing as he had held Brendan's life in his hands. Eventually he had given in, feeling claustrophobic at the thought of sitting there in the spoiled garments, pretending that no time had gone by.

Ste couldn't help but cast his mind back to the last time he had seen Brendan in hospital. The relief that he was okay was tempered with the knowledge of Brendan's confession and that nothing could ever be the same again. That day in the hospital had determined the next decade of Ste's life; ensured that he spent the next few years unable to let go of what could have been, spurred on his renewed relationship with Doug, as well as the disintegration of it much later. Ste is acutely aware of how the winds of change can blow everything off course with one seemingly innocuous event at its heart.

 _ **"You changed everything..."**_

When Ben arrives, quietly, approaching Ste warily, it takes Ste a moment to properly register his presence.

"What you doing here?" Ste doesn't mean for the words to come out sounding as accusatory as they do, and he feels immediately guilty for the flinch that crosses Ben's features. None of this is his fault, not really.

"I brought you some clothes. Thought you might like your own things."

The kindness of the gesture makes Ste's eyes sting.

"How did you know I was here?"

"Cheryl."

"Ah right."

Ste takes the bundle of clothing with him to the nearest restroom. Holding them up to his nose he breathes in the familiar smell, the scent of the detergent he uses as well as that faint background note that reminds Ste of his home. He changes into them carefully and washes his face, running fingers dripping with water through his hair. All of this makes him feel a little better. When he returns to the relatives room Ben is still there waiting for him, disposable cup full of tea next to him on the table. Ste sits without words, sips at the tea, flinches because the liquid is too hot for the delicate lining of his mouth. He looks at Ben questioningly.

"Where is Cheryl?"

"She's gone home to get some sleep. She's exhausted."

Ste nods; he vaguely recalls her telling him now that he's been reminded.

"You know, you must be exhausted too," Ben says carefully, hand on Ste's thigh.

"So?"

"So it's okay. To go home. To sleep."

Ste shrugs off Ben's hand, picking up the styrofoam cup and sipping at the too hot tea for something to do. Ben sighs and rubs his eyes. He looks tired too, Ste thinks.

"Let me look after you Ste. Please."

"Who's going to look after him eh?" Ste means it to be an angry query but his voice isn't behaving; he simply sounds drained, offering Ben further ammunition.

"The doctors. The nurses. Ste, Cheryl told me he is stable. And sedated. He doesn't even know that you're here."

"Yeah, but I know don't I. If I stay, I can live with myself."

"Live with yourself? Ste, this isn't your fault, you didn't cause this."

"Didn't I?"

"No," Ben says firmly, replacing the hand that Ste had removed on to his thigh once more.

"I could have left you. When he told me he still loved me, when he told me everything I wanted to hear. I could've walked away and then we wouldn't be here."

"Why didn't you then?"

Ste shrugs, thinks it over, but the buzzing in his head makes it difficult to organise his thoughts. None of his reasons seem valid now anyhow.

"Didn't want to hurt the kids. Hurt you."

There is a strange, pained expression on Ben's face that Ste has never seen before. He has been hurt anyway, Ste thinks, he didn't achieve anything with his list of best intentions. Ben doesn't comment on it however.

"Nothing you did would have made a difference. He's not well, and you couldn't have fixed that."

"He was better with me."

"Ste -"

"Well he was. They won't let me see him you know."

"You're not family," Ben states, and Ste nods. Not family. Not anything really. He can't lay claim to Brendan at all.

"Is there anything I can say to persuade you to come home?" Ben asks after a little while. Ste had forgotten the other man was there. He looks at the man he loves - despite everything, he _does_ love him, even if the day's events have rendered him numb to it at present.

"I can't. Ben, try to understand. Please."

Ben kisses Ste's cheek tenderly, pulling his coat on to leave.

"I do understand, it's okay. Promise me you'll try and get some sleep at least."

He hands Ste a carrier bag that had been nestled at his feet, and slips out of the room with no further fuss. Ste pulls the blanket from his living room out of the bag, a comforting piece of home that proves to Ste how well Ben knows him. He knew that Ste wouldn't leave with him after all. A wave of exhaustion rolls over him and Ste carefully wraps his heavy limbs inside the fur lining, lying down on the chilled, unyielding benches.

When he wakes it is lighter. He shifts a little and notices that Cheryl is sitting next to his feet, gazing into the distance. She looks to be in deep thought, and as he drags himself into an upright position it takes her a while to tune back into the room and to acknowledge Ste. Cheryl smiles, her lovely face worn with anxiety.

"Hey you," she says, stroking the edge of the blanket that has fallen onto her seat as Ste shifted.

"What time is it?" he asks, an unexpected yawn accompanying his words.

"A little after eight. Still early. Just waiting on the doctor to finish her rounds."

Ste nods, beginning to fold the blanket carefully, joining the corners and pulling them taut. There is comfort to be had in the small, familiar rituals.

"You stayed here all night," Cheryl observes. It isn't a question, but it isn't quite a statement either. Ste wonders if Cheryl feels guilty for not staying herself: there is something vaguely hostile about her facial expression that Ste isn't used to.

"Yeah. I know I didn't need to or anything, but I just couldn't face going home."

"Did you speak to Ben?"

"A bit," Ste shrugs, folding the blanket back into its carrier bag. Cheryl watches him do this, waiting for his full attention.

"He was upset. When I saw him last night."

"I just can't think about Ben right now Chez."

Cheryl looks like she wants an argument - looks like she wants to shout at him. Perhaps she needs the release, perhaps it would distract her from Brendan and the doctors and the impending difficult medical dialogue.

"Nate's on his way," she says instead, more calmly than Ste had anticipated.

"That's good that is."

"Ben's picking him up from the airport."

"What do you want me to say Chez eh?"

Before Cheryl can respond the door opens and a nurse pops her head around it, glancing around the room.

"Ms Brady? The doctor would like a word if that's okay?"

As Cheryl nods and pulls herself up, Ste puts out a hand, grabs her arm, more roughly than he meant to. It startles her.

"Do you need me to come with you?" Ste asks, trying to keep the desperation from his voice. He wants to know what is going on with Brendan, yearns from an update more than anything.

"It's fine. I need to do this on my own."

Ste watches her leave, a protest or perhaps a plea dying on his lips.

He doesn't know how long passes. People come and go, but he barely notices. Ste thinks he must keep zoning out, because at one point he registers an older man sitting two seats down from him, no recollection of his arrival.

The relatives room is stuffy, almost unbearably warm - someone has clearly altered the thermostat. It makes the place feel claustrophobic, as though the benches are slowly shuffling towards him, closing in on him. Ste sheds his hooded top, feeling oddly vulnerable sitting in an old t shirt that he uses normally to sleep in. He clutches his own arms in a protective gesture. Ste allows himself to drift off once more into a sort of trance like state. He thinks about his children; about the talcum tinged baby scent of their earliest years, their soft folds of flesh as they wrapped their chubby arms around his neck when they were toddlers. He remembers being so needed. The loss of those years sometimes feels like a bereavement in itself, a time he can never get back.

He thinks about the desire to have another child, the urge to have all of those years for a second time, to cherish them and savour them because now he understands how brief they are. An image enters his head of a little girl, a little girl with dark hair and startling blue eyes, smiling an anxious smile, seeking approval. The features are so familiar to him that it makes his heart ache in a peculiar way. This little girl with Brendan's nose and eyes comes to him with such clarity that it makes him breathless. He feels like crying, yet no tears arrive.

When Cheryl returns it is clear that tears have not been a problem for her. She clutches a bundle of documents to her chest, and when she lowers herself gingerly into a chair across from Ste, a nurse is on hand to bring her tea, ensuring she is settled. There is a slight tremor in her hand as she grips a pen. Poised to begin the task, Cheryl shuffles the paper on her knee and scans the first sheet with swollen eyes.

"Chez... is everything..." he can't bring himself to say anything else. Brendan had been stable the night before, yet Cheryl's appearance suggested some change in these circumstances. She looks up at Ste's anxious face for a moment, before applying pen to paper, etching her signature onto the document. She places it face down on the chair next to her, proceeding to read the next sheet in the pile.

"How much did Brendan tell you about what was going on with him?" Cheryl asks, sounding more composed than her appearance would suggest. Only a congested back note in her voice gives any indication of previous distress.

"Dunno. I thought a lot, but after everything... Chez, what's happened?"

Continuing to read, Cheryl releases a bitter laugh that would have sounded more appropriate coming from Brendan.

"Anything about the therapist? Did he tell you about him Ste?"

"Look Chez, will you just -"

"He was sleeping with him. The doctor."

Ste feels his face crunch up with disbelief.

"Who? No, where would you get that idea?"

Cheryl stares at Ste properly for the first time since she returned to the relatives room, paperwork temporarily abandoned. There is sympathy in her eyes and Ste suddenly sees with a horrible clarity that it is true. His gut clenches as though he might be sick.

"That sorry excuse for a doctor told me love. I asked him to stop treating our Bren, told him that I'd report him if he didn't."

"You knew?"

"Yes. I'm sorry babe."

Ste doesn't want to believe it. He thinks about Brendan's hands on him, so urgent and reverent as they roamed across his body. Whispered conversations in Brendan's bed, deep intimacy in all they did, and yet Ste had never had an inkling that anything was going on with another man.

But then he remembers talking with Mark at the club on the night of the opening. The man had seemed so charming, so supportive. He thought that it was a good thing, that Brendan's doctor cared about him. Maybe that evening should have alerted Ste, but then Brendan's panic attack had happened, and he had come to the realisation that staying away from Brendan was nigh on impossible, at least for him. The sex had been uncomfortable and thrilling, the rush of it was just as electric as Ste had remembered. The guilt that had poured in soon afterwards had been about that; Ste hadn't felt that good in ten years. Brendan was not Ben and the illicit pleasure of the act with another man had been almost unbearable. His encounter with the doctor was wiped clean out of his head after all of that.

And the bruises. Mark's face had been a shock, a mess of swelling and unnatural colour. Ste couldn't help but think of Brendan's manic rage the night that Ste had compared him with Seamus. It makes him shudder even now when he thinks of it.

"He was sleeping with him. That's why Brendan lost it with him."

Cheryl nods.

"I think so. I don't know. But his behaviour - Bren's behaviour - it's not normal Ste."

Betrayal, irrational though it is, rips through Ste's heart. Images of Brendan fucking Mark in places that Ste thought were only his - it is too much to handle. The tears come without warning. Ugly gasping sobs pull at his lungs, making it hard to breathe.

When comfort comes, it is in the form of a set of solid warm arms wrapped around him. He blinks through the veil of tears and sees that Ben has arrived, is the one holding him, is rocking him from side to side as if he were an infant.

Ste makes an effort to compose himself, but it takes time. He gulps in air, trying to disperse the sobs, gratefully accepting the tissue that is wordlessly offered. Gradually he comes back to himself, pushing a soft kiss into the crook of Ben's neck. Ste peers around, once more aware of his surroundings.

"Where's Cheryl?"

The words are familiar; he feels the sensation of deja vu.

"Nate's here. They're outside talking with the nurses about moving him."

Ben doesn't say "his" name - he is clearly concerned that it will set Ste off again. Ste sits up a little.

"Moving him? Moving him where?"

Ben strokes a thumb across Ste's cheek tenderly, and Ste leans into the touch. He needs the contact.

"Didn't Cheryl talk to you about it? I thought what was why -" Ben hesitates. Ste can read between the lines though. He realises that whatever has happened with Brendan is enough for Ben to think that what he has just witnessed was a reaction to it. His mouth goes dry. He can hardly explain the real reason for his tears to himself, never mind to Ben.

"Tell me Ben. Please."

Ben takes a deep breath and holds onto Ste's arms.

"Brendan's been sectioned. They're moving him to a different ward, and from there he'll be moved to Bowmere hospital."

Ste can't speak.

 ** _"Bren's behaviour - it's not normal Ste..."_**

Cheryl had been about to tell him, he realises.

"Cheryl's upset about having to do it, but the doctors know what they're doing. It's the right thing Ste."

Ste nods. Later, he will sift through his memories, comb them for clues that Brendan needed help. He will spend hours recalling the occasionally wild expressions behind Brendan's eyes, will remind himself of every time that Brendan appeared to be elsewhere, or signs that whoever he was talking to wasn't in the room.

But for now, Ste is suddenly bone tired, knows that he does not have the energy to process the news. He looks at Ben's handsome, troubled face - this man who loves him, who is so careful with him, so considerate. Here for him, despite his own breaking heart. Ste leans in, kisses Ben quickly, a chaste peck on the lips. Ben looks surprised by the gesture, tracing fingers over his lips. Ste offers Ben a cautious smile.

"Let's go home," Ste says quietly.

* * *

When the weekend arrives, so do Leah and Lucas. It is the norm during term time, and although Ste now sees his daughter much more often with her shifts in his kitchen, the weekend visits remain in place. The routine is comforting, safe, and more than ever Ste wants to hold onto his children and never let go. Their visit this weekend was never in question despite everything that had happened - after all, how could he possibly explain the situation to Amy?

He remembers telling Amy about Brendan's return to Hollyoaks, the look of horror on her face that she had tried to disguise just a second too late.

"Why would he come back to Hollyoaks?" she had asked, suspicion evident in every line on her face. For me, Ste's brain supplied in a sing song gleeful voice.

"He's got the club," was what he said out loud, and Amy rolled her eyes in the way that Leah had made her signature.

"Well that'll be me not going there again."

"Yeah, and when was the last time you went 'The Loft' Amy?"

Amy, as always, had ensured that her disapproval was not open to interpretation. She loved Ben, often meeting him in Manchester for lunch, completely separate from Ste. Ste had always been relieved by their bond; life was so much easier when his family was in harmony. It was just one more reason that being irrevocably in love with Brendan was inconvenient at best. He had mentioned Amy's lack of enthusiasm to Leah, asking her not to talk too much about Brendan in front of her mother. Leah, who seemed to be steadfastly 'Team Brendan', couldn't understand the request, and Ste couldn't bring himself to tell her. In truth, he liked having Leah's support of Brendan, and he wasn't about to readily supply any details that might have derailed that.

So when he had called Amy and told her that Brendan was in hospital, she made sympathetic noises that were best suited to bad news about a distant acquaintance, but had then rapidly changed the subject. The purpose of the phone call hadn't really been to inform Amy of course; it had been primarily to put Leah's mind at rest - Leah, who had been there with him and Cheryl _that_ day.

Ste is in the kitchen wearing navy sweats when the children arrive on Friday afternoon. He pulls three bowls out from one of the cupboards next to the fridge, having to stretch onto tiptoes to reach them. His eyes drift to the oven, checking the progress of the lasagne cooking there. The aroma of cheese, tomatoes and garlic is familiar, and he knows the positive reaction it will conjure up from Leah and Lucas. Sure enough, when Ste hears the door slam and keys land on the hallway sideboard, he only has to wait seconds for Lucas to walk in, following his nose as usual.

"Hey dad, is that lasagne I smell?" Lucas asks with his gentle smile. He leans where he always does - across the counter top, crossing his arms and holding his elbows in his hands. Ste feels the inevitable warm swell that he associates with the arrival of his family. Lucas is too old now for spontaneous affection, but is still young enough to show willing if Ste asks. He opens his arms in invitation.

"Come here, give your dad a hug will you?" Ste says, and Lucas obediently pads around the island and launches himself into his father's arms. Ste holds on for longer than he normally would, breathing in the scent of his hair, relishing the solidity, the realness of the body in his arms. Leah walks in quietly as Ste slowly relinquishes his hold.

"What's up dad?" Lucas asks, separating himself, retreating to his original position across the counter. Ste musters a grin for his son.

"I've missed you, haven't I. Allowed to do that aren't I?"

Lucas shrugs, squirming a little at Ste's overt affection. He won't hug me on demand soon either, he thinks to himself sadly. He knows that the grin on his face does not reach his eyes, because when he looks at Leah she raises cynical eyebrows in his direction.

"Want a drink dad? Luc?" Leah asks, opening the fridge. Ste dons his polka dot oven gloves; a birthday gift from the kids.

"Sure. Beer ta love," he says, pulling open the oven door and retrieving the lasagne, golden and bubbling in its dish.

"Should I take these through?" Lucas asks, picking up the bowls questioningly.

"Yes mate. Can you set the table too?"

"No probs dad," Lucas chimes. Ste has made lasagne on purpose because it is Lucas' favourite. Leah pulls two serving spoons out of a drawer and passes them to Ste.

"Have you seen him?" she begins with no attempt at preamble; absolutely her mother's daughter.

"We'll talk about this later Leah."

Leah blocks Ste's path to the living room, standing firmly between the island and the fridge, a drink in either hand.

"Please dad. You look -"

"What? What do I look?"

"Tired," Leah finishes, a slight defeatist shrug to her shoulders. The heat of the pyrex dish he is holding begins to filter through the padding of the oven gloves, and Ste places the dish on the counter, musters the effort to smile reassuringly at his daughter, who wears her worry like the heart on her sleeve: for all to see.

"Brendan will be fine. He has to stay in hospital for a while right, and I haven't seen him yet, but -"

"What's wrong with him?" she asks, the wobble in her voice betraying her act of grown up stoicism.

"Leah... you're old enough to know that not all illnesses are physical."

There is silence in the kitchen while she processes this information. An undulating hum in the background tells Ste that Lucas has turned on the television, turning as ritual dictates to the music channels. It is the only television that Ste and Ben allow through dinner, and it has always been down to Lucas to select the specific channel for the evening.

"So... you mean he's like depressed or something?"

Ste gives Leah a quick hug. He wants to dispel her uncertainty, despite still suffering with it himself.

"Or something sweetheart, yeah. Now let's go and have some tea while it's still hot, yeah?"

* * *

"Is Ben not here for tea?" Lucas asks when Ste comes to the table with the lasagne.

"No mate, he'll be here a bit later though."

Leah takes her seat, grabbing the tongs from the salad bowl and serving both herself and Ste.

"How come he's here later?"

Leah's query seems to Ste to have a note of disapproval, and he frowns at her, motioning for her to hand over her bowl.

"I've got the night off. Good that, isn't it?"

Ste's over the top cheer hits the spot with Lucas, who grins Ste's grin right back at him and declares that having a Friday night in with his dad is 'great'. Leah remains quiet, clearly deep in thought as she accepts her lasagne laden bowl back, lowering it carefully onto the placemat in front of her.

Ste feels a little guilty. He never takes Friday nights off; it is the busiest evening for the restaurant and as such the head chef's presence ensured the smooth running of service. During a service he barely even cooks himself anymore. Instead he keeps on top of the tickets, watches over the younger chefs in case they become overwhelmed, and works with his sous chef to ensure dishes that are released from the pass are to a consistently high standard. On a Friday he would normally run lunch and then prep for the evening, before heading home to the kids for a couple of hours. It was a hectic routine, but he loved it. Ben joined them for dinner if he was in the country, and would stay when Ste left for work, mainly spending the evening playing the game of the moment on the Playstation with Lucas. When Ste crept in, usually around midnight, Ben would be waiting up for him with a bottle of wine and recorded television. The easy simplicity of his domestic life had made him content before the chaotic ups and downs of the last five months. Ste finds himself wishing for the time before.

And so, although he is in a permanent state of anxiety about Brendan, it is not the primary reason for his weekend off. Ste wants to recreate the calm, wants to pretend just for a little while that everything in his life hasn't gone to hell. The dreams he has about his domestic idyll don't normally feature Ben, but he chooses not to dwell on that. Dreams are not reality, as Ste is only too aware.

Ben arrives a little after seven. Lucas runs at him and launches himself onto him. For a moment Ste is irrationally angry with his son, as though he is purposely flaunting his connection with Ben to exacerbate Ste's guilt. There is a hesitancy to Ben's affection that is not normally there; his peck on Ste's cheek is almost wary, and he doesn't lift Lucas off the floor as he usually does. Desperate to put him at ease, Ste grabs Ben's hand, pulling him back and kissing the lips that are so familiar to him. He is gratified by the almost instantaneous warmth that blooms in Ben's dark eyes.

"Just going to do your tea," Ste murmurs, retreating to the kitchen. As he slides the lasagne dish into the prewarmed oven, his gaze lands on the fridge door and the photographs that are cheerfully stuck there with multi coloured magnets. The image of Leah and Brendan is still in its place, despite Ste's falling out with him weeks earlier. Plucking the photo from its place, Ste adopts Lucas' earlier position, leaning across the counter with the image in his hands. He strokes his index finger across the plane of Brendan's cheek, as though he could conjure the man in the photo to life in front of him if he concentrated hard enough. The creases around the eyes, those indicators of unexpected happiness, the place where Leah has affectionately pushed her face against his, concertinaing the soft flesh of their cheeks - these are the things that Ste wants to see when he thinks about Brendan. He considers the other photograph from that day that he has kept, well hidden in a bedroom drawer; a photograph that had startled him with its honesty. Anyone who saw it would know that Ste loved Brendan, all of their intimacy and shared passion was evident in the tilt of his chin and the intensity of their locked gaze. It is painful to think of, now.

The evening goes on. Ben eats and praises Ste's cooking, Leah finds a film for them all to watch, fighting with Lucas for a larger share of the blanket. It's almost mundane in its normality. Ste allows himself to relax a little, taking the glass of red wine that Ben offers, listens as Leah bargains for half a glass, smiles when Ben shows her how to swirl the liquid against the glass to see its legs. Leah agrees to load the dishwasher and clean the kitchen down, but Ste takes pity on her, helping her with the task while Ben and Lucas play a round of Fifa. The conversation is light, easy, and if Leah notices that the photograph of her and Brendan had moved, she doesn't mention it. When they are finished, she hangs the teatowel on its hook and kisses Ste on the cheek.

"I'm off to bed. Sleep well dad."

It is difficult for Ste not to be overcome. He takes a deep breath to steel himself, heading back into the living room.

"Come on Lucas mate, bed time."

Lucas looks longingly at the TV screen and the game in progress.

"Can I just finish this one game?" he asks, a slight whine in his voice that Ste would usually pull him up on, but on this occasion, too tired to argue, he shrugs and allows them to carry on.

When Lucas finally admits defeat and reluctantly drags himself to his room, Ste releases an exaggerated yawn, his mouth stretching into a wide 'o'.

"I'm knackered, me," he says, primarily to reassert the point. Ben studies Ste's face with an intent and determined focus that makes Ste uncomfortable.

"Before you go to bed, I think we need to talk Ste. Now that we're alone."

Ste zeroes in on the singular pronoun, and he reaches across the sofa to put a hand on Ben's thigh.

"Are you not staying then?" he asks softly. Ben sighs, rubbing his eyes and seeming vaguely irritated.

"That kind of depends on you."

"The kids will think its weird, won't they, if you're gone when they wake up."

He can tell he's said the wrong thing instantly. Ben unfolds his leg from under him, dislodging Ste's grip on his thigh as he does so.

"Maybe you could explain it to them. You could tell them about how you've been having an affair, see what they make of that."

Probably not the time to mention that Leah already knows, Ste thinks to himself. Ben pours wine from the bottle that is still stationed on the coffee table, taking a heavy gulp from his glass.

"Ben -"

"Look, I've tried to be as understanding as I can, okay? I've tried to support you, after what happened, with what you saw and what you had to deal with. But I can't keep sweeping my feelings under the carpet because of Brendan trying to hurt himself. It isn't fair."

"Eh? That's not what happened, it were an accident right, Brendan didn't, he wouldn't..."

Ste isn't sure who he is trying to kid. There is a sympathetic expression on Ben's face now, and it is somehow worse than the anger.

"Ste, have you still not spoken to Cheryl?"

He shrugs defensively. He isn't sure why he is avoiding Cheryl - he felt that she was angry with him for some reason, but that wasn't the whole story. An image of Brendan on the floor of the club, the doctor leaning across him trying to stem the bleeding pops into his head, and Ste closes his eyes against it.

"No. But you have clearly."

"I wanted to check she was doing okay. You know, like I've been doing with you?"

Ste feels affronted, as though Ben is talking about him like he is a wounded animal, but he decides it probably isn't the time to express this.

"So what did she say then? Is she okay? What about Brendan?"

"She's alright. Nate's taking good care of her."

There is an awkward pause while Ben takes another gulp of wine.

"Listen Ste, what do you know about what's happened?"

"Not a lot. Only what I got told at the hospital."

"Well I don't know much about it either, but Cheryl told me there are different types of section, based on the severity. It can determine the length of time of the hospital stay."

"I get it. So which type applies to Brendan?"

"The most severe. I'm sorry Ste. It'll be at least six months, and even then the doctors might decide to keep him admitted for longer."

 ** _"You can't go to prison again. I couldn't do it..."_**

It was mere weeks ago, although now it seems like years. Ste had panicked about the impact of Brendan's violence on him - on them. The idea of Brendan being locked away again had been unthinkable. Now, one way or another, it felt as though it had happened anyway.

"He hates being locked up," Ste murmurs, and Ben hands him a full glass of wine. He realises then that his hands are trembling. The wine tastes oddly metallic on his tongue.

"It isn't the same. He's not a criminal this time."

Ste glances at Ben, a glance laden with meaning. Years earlier, Ste had told Ben about Brendan taking the blame for Seamus' death, in an effort not to be judged as someone who had been in a relationship with a murderer. He hadn't told Ben the whole story of course - only that Brendan had been protecting the real culprit for reasons that weren't Ste's to divulge. He still feared Ben working out that Cheryl was the person being protected, although he was almost certain that Ben wouldn't say anything even if he did. It helped that he seemed to be very fond of her.

"He'll get help. He needs help," Ben continues, and Ste nods robotically in response.

"There's something else... there's going to be a criminal case against the doctor who's been treating him. It's been alleged that he misdiagnosed Brendan deliberately to keep him as his patient."

A cold chill prickles across Ste's skin, and it makes him shiver. The bruised face of the doctor comes to mind; the hopelessness and guilt that had been evident as Cheryl questioned him. In hindsight Doctor Phillips had obviously known the writing was on the wall when they had appeared on his doorstep looking for Brendan.

"That's sick."

"Oh, I don't know," Ben says thoughtfully, "people do strange things when they think they're in love. Out of character things."

Ste's eyes begin to tear up, despite his attempts to halt the process. He tilts his head up, reaches across to the adjacent couch to pull the blanket over his lap.

"I didn't know."

"What, that Brendan was sleeping with his doctor? I didn't suppose you did. Must be a bit of a kick in the teeth for you, the man you love shagging someone else."

"Ben..."

Ben shifts his body to face Ste, who cocoons himself in the throw and it's comforting layers of fur protection. Tears stream freely now.

"In a way I understand. It was unfinished business with Brendan, you didn't get to play it out. I get it, the 'what if', because he was taken from you when you loved him so much. And when he came back... well, we've been together a long time, and I'm away a lot."

"It was never about us Ben. I _love_ us."

Ste has never seen Ben cry. Their life together has never given him cause. But now, through his own mask of tears, he sees that the dark eyes he loves so dearly have that telltale shine to them.

"I know. I do know that Ste. And I thought to myself, if I just bide my time, wait for it to run its course..."

The emotion in Ben's voice stings Ste into honesty.

"It wouldn't have... run its course I mean."

"No. When I realised that, I went to Brendan. I feel badly about that now," Ben says, turning his face away from Ste, "but I was desperate. The thought of losing everything we'd built... it terrified me."

"It still terrifies me," Ben continues, "and that's what I really wanted to say. What we have together Ste, isn't it worth fighting for?"

Ste pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees an opalescent matrix blurring his vision. The answer is so simple, yet not really simple at all.

"So much has happened though. How can you ever forgive me for it?"

A hand is on Ste's blanketed knee now, tentative and gentle.

"Because I love you. And the future we had planned, it's still there waiting for us. I start my new job next week, and the house is there, just waiting for us to move into it. Plus, there's these..."

From his laptop bag that is balanced against the sofa, Ben pulls out a bundle of papers. The adoption, Ste realises.

"Not sure I'm ready for that yet, me. Maybe we should give it a few months..."

Hope lights up Ben's face, and once again Ste cannot believe the pain he has caused him. He owes him this, to try again. He can shut down the part of his brain that is thinking about Brendan, just like he has done before. He can section off the part of his heart that is scarred with Brendan's name.

"I know you can't switch your feelings off overnight Ste, and I don't expect that. Just give me the chance to show you how good it can be."

Ste breathes in steadily, fortifying himself.

"Okay."

As Ben enfolds him into his embrace, into warmth and familiarity, Ste feels the beginnings of grief take hold.

* * *

It takes until the 'for sale' sign goes up outside the flat for Leah to say something. Ste knows his daughter, knows that she has been biding her time, assessing the situation. She smiles when shown the photographs of the new house, and eagerly spends a day with Ben at his new offices. Nevertheless, she seems cautious around Ste, as though she is stopping herself from saying what she really wants to say.

The day the 'for sale' sign is put up feels like the first day of spring. The sun beams down on Ste as he looks up at the building, shielding his squinting eyes with his hand. Time to step up the job search, he thinks. He has been asking around, covertly of course, because the commute from Altrincham, while not beyond the realms of doability, was still twice what it would be if he worked in the city centre. Ste had never really considered himself ambitious, yet the idea of being a head chef in the centre of a city like Manchester was appealing. A whole new chapter seemed right somehow.

As he turns away from the building he almost careers straight into Leah, who looks momentarily startled as a result.

"Leah! Didn't see you there."

"You're really doing it then? Selling it?" Leah asks, pointing up at the sign. With a frown caused by looking towards the sun on her face, Ste is given a preview of what Leah will look like in adulthood, and he is forcibly reminded that she is almost there, will soon be living out her own dramas, falling in love for better or worse. It is unsettling.

"Yes love. No point in keeping it when we've got the new house."

"Isn't there?" Ste sighs, pressing his back into the railings and brickwork behind him, savouring the sensation of cool through his polo shirt. From this vantage point he is looking almost right at the house where Brendan and Cheryl used to live. He wishes that crossing the threshold of that place, the setting for so much of his first love story, could transport him back to those moments, to that time.

"I'm not talking to you about this Leah, okay?"

"But I don't get it. You're going on as though nothing's happened..."

"Do you not like Ben? Is that it?"

"No, you know I do. He's great. But -"

"But what?"

"But what about Brendan?"

There are tears in his daughter's eyes. He gestures for her to perch next to him, and he loops an arm around her skinny shoulder, pressing a kiss into the apple of her cheek.

"Sweetheart -"

"We can't just abandon him."

"No-one's abandoned him, he's in hospital."

"Exactly. _He's_ sick, and _we're_ all playing happy families as though he was never here. I told him I'd fight his corner dad."

"When did you tell him that?"

A cloud momentarily covers the sun, and a chill permeates the air. Goosebumps prickle on Ste's bare arms.

"When I gave him the letters. I knew you would never ask him to read them, but he needed to. I thought you'd be angry with me, but we never talked about it after. That's because it worked, didn't it?"

Ste allows himself to look back over the time since Brendan had returned. Since the moment he had laid eyes on him again he had been so desperate for Brendan's touch. He had laughed at himself at the time; after everything they'd been through, together and apart, the first thing that had struck Ste had been how much he still fancied him. He had felt like a teenager again, as though he was reliving the thrill of the early days, the first kisses and their intensity, the first stinging of stubble rash on his chin and later across his body. The night he had gone round to Brendan's to find him surrounded by the painstakingly written volumes of his love and heartbreak, Ste had known how it was going to go. Before he had left his flat he had loaded up his pockets with condoms, without thinking too much about the implications of his actions. He left the guilt of using them all for the following day, when he had got everything he wanted.

"Yeah. It worked," Ste admits, knowing that as much as he dislikes the idea, he has to find a way of explaining things to Leah, has to try to make her understand something that he doesn't fully understand himself.

"You could see it," she says with a little nod, "in every look he gave you. How much he loved you. And the letters said how much you loved him."

His daughter, the hopeless romantic.

"Leah. It's difficult for you to understand this right, because it hasn't happened for you yet. But... Brendan was my first love. Love like that... well, it's the strongest and the most painful love you'll ever feel."

"Painful?"

"Yes sweetheart. Loving Brendan has caused me the most pain I've ever been through in my life."

He doesn't add that paradoxically it has also caused him to feel intense happiness such as never before or since. The best of times, the worst of times. Leah doesn't need to know that.

"You still love him though."

"I'll never not love him. Never. No matter what he does."

Ste is still smarting over the revelations over the doctor and Brendan, though he is doing his best not to think about it, as an explanation was unlikely to be forthcoming any time soon.

"But then -"

"But I love Ben too. In a different way, but it's still just as real. I love our family, and he loves us. It's the right thing for everyone."

"Except for Brendan."

Except for Brendan. Something deep within Ste's chest twists painfully. He releases Leah's shoulder, threading his hand through his hair and remaining quiet; he doesn't know what else to say. Leah sniffs next to him, but when he looks back at her her eyes are dry. She is staring contemplatively at the sun lit paving slabs.

"Could I go and see him?" she asks quietly, as though she fears being shot down.

"I've already tried to. He isn't allowed visitors right now."

It is the truth. Despite assurances to Ben about the new start, Ste had been to the hospital twice weekly since Brendan's move there. Each time the staff were polite, understanding, but ultimately firm in their rejection of his pleas for information. He has been waking up from nightmares of Brendan strapped down and gagged, terror evident in his trapped eyes. Ste knows of course that it wouldn't happen like that in this day and age; nevertheless not seeing him doesn't help with his overactive imagination.

"Do you think he'll get better?"

Ste's instinct is to lie, to reassure Leah and say that he's certain he will recover, that Brendan has always fought everything in his path, whether it needed fighting or not. But the words won't form on his lips.

"I don't know Leah. I really don't know."

* * *

"If you want to leave something, I can make sure he gets it..."

Ste thinks long and hard about what he can give - what does he want Brendan to have? How to communicate everything he wants to say without being face to face: it is a question that remains in his head for days. He spends most of his next three shifts at work distant and distracted. It is easy to pass it off as sadness at his imminent departure to a fine dining restaurant in the northern quarter of Manchester. The staff he has built up the business with are heartbroken, and so it is a simple thing to use the muted atmosphere already in place as a shield.

After a nearly sleepless night, Ste comes to a decision. This time there will be no letters, no declarations of love and sorrow. He will not do that to himself again.

When Ste finds the kindly receptionist that made him the offer the next morning, she smiles warmly at him in recognition. He hands her a stiff card envelope with Brendan's name carefully printed on it.

"Who should I say it's from?" she asks gently.

Ste scratches the back of his head, watches a nurse close one of the security doors behind him, an almost inhuman howl cut off as the lock clicks shut. The nurse is young, slim and fair haired. There are fresh grazes on his bare arm in the crescent moon shape of fingernails.

"Er... he'll know who it's from," he says distractedly, still watching the nurse murmuring calmly to a harried looking colleague - a doctor he guesses, due to the lack of scrubs.

"Are you alright love?" the receptionist asks. Ste wants to nod, to say 'of course', and then make a hasty exit from this building that is full to the brim with anguish and suffering.

"Look, I know you can't really tell me anything, and I get that right, but I just want to know... if you gave this to Brendan right now, today, would he recognise - I mean, is he well enough to - shit..."

Ste knows he is babbling, and his companion puts a sympathetic hand on his arm.

"Let me have a quick look at your friend's records, okay? Just between you and me though."

Ste thinks about following her behind the desk, trying to get a proper look at Brendan's file, but he somehow resists the urge. When she returns, her eyes are filled with pity and it makes him feel sick.

"He's pretty heavily sedated at the moment, so if I'm honest love, he won't be aware of much at all. Is that what you wanted -"

"Yeah," Ste says abruptly, in a louder voice than intended, "thanks."

He turns away from the desk, from the well meaning receptionist who has told him more than she should because of his tragic perseverance, from the handsome young nurse who offers him an understanding smile. Before he can leave though, something makes him turn around.

"I'm sorry, one more thing. If it's not too much trouble. Can you wait to give Brendan that envelope? Until he _is_ aware I mean?"

"Course we can," the receptionist gives him that consolatory smile and nod again, and Ste finds himself nodding in return.

"Cheers," he says, and this time when he turns away he does not look back.

* * *

 **A/N: So it turns out that I find writing from Ste's perspective really difficult! This was something I plotted in way back when I started writing, because of Brendan being out of action but also to fill in some of the questionable conclusions Brendan leapt to - for example, the idea that Ste would ever tell anyone about the abuse Brendan suffered. Hopefully it has also made Ben a slightly more likeable character - he was always supposed to be a 'nice guy', but again through Brendan's eyes he most certainly took on a more sinister slant. I have tried to characterise Ste's confusion and desire to keep his family together as understandable, even though he really isn't prepared to give Brendan up to do so. Hope this comes across.**

 **Next chapter is back to Brendan (thankfully)! Thank you yet again to readers who have stuck with me - not many chapters left now...**


	30. Chapter 30

30.

For a long time there was only darkness - darkness that was so deep and so intense that there was no conceivable end to it.

When the darkness eventually gave way, becoming a thing of the past, it was difficult to remember precisely what it had been like when it had been there; even more difficult to work out how much time had passed under the cover of it. It had seemed as though it had always been there, casting a shadow, until it wasn't. The impossible blackness nevertheless left an abiding imprint on Brendan - though he could not adequately explain what it had been like, he was still afraid of it, and that fear remained.

Explaining this to Doctor Mansour was a frustrating process, because finding words for his emotions had never exactly been Brendan's forte. This was just one of the things that made the doctor lean forward in her chair, hands firmly on her knees, and urge him to _try._ To search for the words, because they were in there somewhere, waiting to be released into the open.

As a doctor, she had been a breath of fresh air. Supremely professional and endlessly ambivalent to Brendan's mood swings, he wouldn't have been able to play her even if he'd wanted to. Not that in this case he _did_ want to. Doctor Mansour wanted to help him and she had no ulterior motive, besides it being her job, for her interest in him. Brendan needed this level of objectivity; he could not afford to have another experience like the one with his previous physician. He knew from speaking with Cheryl that Mark had faced investigation and was eventually struck off for what had transpired between them. Once more Brendan had a hard time working out precisely how he felt about this outcome. In a way he felt guilty and more than a little bit to blame. When talking it through with Doctor Mansour, her normally impassive face had rearranged itself into a wry smile.

"Have you noticed how often you identify as being guilty for other people's actions Brendan?"

He had let out a humourless huff of laughter at that. When he stopped to think about it, Brendan realised that she was right - he _did_ have a tendency to focus in on his influence on any given situation.

"If I told you that the world doesn't revolve around you, would you believe it?"

"I'm beginning to, yeah..."

This was usually how it went. The doctor had described it as 'rewiring' his thought processes - taking negatives and discarding them, trying to reroute into something positive. It wasn't easy to do this, as Brendan wasn't exactly a positive person. But Doctor Mansour remained patient and persistent in equal measure.

He had sat in her office more times than he could count. The first few months were blurred by heavy medication, their first meetings almost entirely lost to drugs and darkness.

"What do you remember about your first weeks here?"

Fear. And the darkness. Interminable stretches of time were there was nothing at all. Brief flashes of consciousness accompanied by suffocating panic. Then, mercifully, back to black, blissful in its absence of feeling.

* * *

Slowly the light had begun to dawn. The memory of how he had spent his day began to linger. It brought to mind his experience with being prescribed pills by Mark whilst still in prison. Brendan had thrown his guts up for days, feeling as though his mind was clinging on to the edges of his own body, such was the sense of displacement. Thankfully in hospital it hadn't been like that. Brendan was monitored carefully, each adjustment of dosage checked and recorded. There was no way of forgetting to take it either; no way of Brendan ending up distant or groggy because of his own decisions. Decisions were essentially removed in hospital altogether and Brendan found himself curiously grateful for it. There was a time for meals; set times for waking and sleeping; time for appointments and time for a degree of leisure. It was regimented and Brendan liked it. It removed the need to think about the everyday routines, leaving the headspace needed for therapy.

There were still moments of panic littering the path to recovery. Not long after his move to the less intensive environment of Maple ward, Brendan brought up a subject that had been troubling him. He spoke with Doctor Mansour about Warren Fox, suggesting that the police should be alerted to his ongoing existence so that he might be dragged to prison once more. She had leaned forward in the way that she often did and asked questions - how many times had Warren turned up, where had he turned up, and who else had been there.

"Well he was hardly going to come to the club at the head of a marching band now was he? It was only me he was after."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would he be 'after' you? If he had gone to all the trouble to fake his own death for the sole purpose of getting revenge on you, then why didn't he simply get on with it?"

Brendan found himself momentarily struck dumb. Why indeed.

"He... was gathering information about me, biding his time, it's what he does..."

The doctor's eyebrows raised slightly, and it dawned on him how utterly absurd it sounded. Doubt inevitably crept its way in.

"If, as you deduced, that Warren was in league with Doctor Phillips, why would he have need of further information? Surely he would have already had access to everything, if that truly was the case?"

Brendan saw the truth then - the truth that he had previously chosen not to see - with bitter clarity. Darkness loomed in his peripheral vision. His heart flailed in his chest and made him nauseous. He stroked his beard in an attempt to find something to do with his hands.

"You're saying that this was all in my head. That Foxy is dead after all and I've just been fucking seeing things?"

"I'm not saying anything Brendan, it's the conclusion you've come to. And I know that you know it's the truth."

His brain chose this moment to remind him of Walker and his bothersome spectral appearances. But it wasn't quite the same to Brendan somehow; he had _always_ had the awareness of Walker not being real. It wasn't the time to contemplate that however - it only served to make his feeling of lunacy more pronounced. Brendan shook his head, rubbing his temples to try and rid himself of the agitation.

"I'm not crazy doc."

"I don't much like that word."

Brendan laughed harshly.

"I bet you don't."

"Brendan, the type of paranoia you have described to me today is all part of your condition. And believe it or not, this realisation is part of your recovery - it's _progress_ Brendan."

It had been progress of course, but it hadn't really felt like it until some time afterwards. It forced Brendan to re-examine the events of the previous year through a different lens: one not tainted by anxiety or delusion. He revisited his conversations with Joel and felt guilt over those lingering doubts that he had had over the man's loyalty. He thought about Cheryl and her tentative interactions with him. He realised that his sister had been scared of him - scared to leave him, clearly frightened of what he might do if left alone. What he _had_ done anyway in the end, although Brendan couldn't remember what had been going through his head in the days leading up to his admission to hospital. Doctor Mansour suggested that this forgetfulness might have been due to his brain protecting itself, a built in self defense mechanism.

"You may never get the memory of those days back."

"Then how will I know - how can I stop it from happening again?"

Doctor Mansour had sat back in her chair at that, removing her glasses and setting them to one side carefully.

"With time, and the right treatment, it is my belief that you do not need to fear it happening again. You can get better Brendan. But you must believe you are capable of it first. Or else I'm afraid we will not get much further."

* * *

The darkness continued to recede slowly, but surely. Some months into his stay on Maple ward Brendan noticed a young nurse chatting with another at the nurses station, wide grin on his tanned and handsome face. It stopped Brendan in his tracks, robbed him a little of breath. He stood motionless in the doorway to the recreation room, a forgotten feeling fluttering in his gut. His own mouth quirked up into a slight smile, his face unconsciously mirroring the man he was watching. When the nurse looked up from his conversation he made eye contact with Brendan almost immediately, his grin widening. Brendan's cheeks warmed slightly and he forced himself to look away, to continue on with his day and his routine - the routine that had become suffocating in the blink of an eye.

That night in the dusky glow of his room, between the night staff's rounds, Brendan stuck his hand inside his boxer shorts, grabbed his aching cock and pumped frantically, muffling the groans of long suppressed orgasm with the flat of his palm against his mouth.

It was as though a dam had burst inside him. Each evening Brendan waited for lights out and used the image that was burnt into his memory of the handsome nameless nurse to bring himself to climax. As the weeks went on, he would spend longer touching himself, reminding himself of the agony of teasing, of drawing it out. He would wake in the night only to begin the ritual again, coming two or three times into the stifling gloom. His sexual appetite that had lain dormant for months had suddenly woken with a vengeance.

Ridiculous as he knew it was, he found himself loitering around the nurses station, hoping to catch another glimpse of the young man who had stirred this thing in him. At his next session with Doctor Mansour he scratched uncomfortably at his beard and asked where he might get a razor from. The doctor frowned a little, scrutinising Brendan's awkward expression over the rims of her glasses. Brendan was unpleasantly reminded of being back at school, where the nuns in charge of the place had frequently given him the same feeling of having asked for something that was incomprehensibly unreasonable.

"What do you want a razor for?"

Brendan raised his eyebrows and grunted.

"Well it's hardly to paint my toenails with doc now is it?"

"The hospital barber can take care of it for you Brendan, you know that."

"No that's not - that's not what I wanted..."

Doctor Mansour smiled at him - a warm, genuine smile that made Brendan wonder what he had said that was such a cause for joy.

"You want to do it yourself. That's it, isn't it?"

Brendan shrugged helplessly.

"Well... yeah. No offense, but I'm pretty particular about who I let near this face, you understand me?"

He watched the doctor write something on a pad, ripping it off and passing it to him without another word.

"What's this?"

"Take it to the pharmacy. It'll be disposable of course, and you'll have to be supervised."

"Okay..." Brendan said uncertainly, glancing down at the instructions that allowed him this modicum of control over his own life.

"This is a good sign Brendan. I look forward to seeing the results."

Standing in the mirror, blade at his throat, Brendan took a deep breath, slowly opening his eyes. The orderly that was supervising him was just in view, but he tried not to see him, tried instead to concentrate on pulling his skin taut, applying the razor to the soapy bristles on his chin. A sense of self returned as the hair fell discarded into the sink. He left the moustache until last, hesitating. No, that had to go too. Revitalised, he ran a damp hand against his smooth cheeks and jaw. It was a sensation that he had not felt in years - totally clean shaven skin - but somehow it felt right. His reflection looked younger, as though a weight had been removed from his shoulders. Brendan let out the breath that he hadn't realised he was holding.

* * *

The handsome nurse approached him for the first time the following week. Brendan Brady had always been immune to nerves, but on this particular occasion his stomach lurched unfamiliarly as the man sat down opposite him in the recreation room, a warm smile lighting up his lovely face. Brendan tilted his head a little, knew that if he squinted his eyes slightly he could see a resemblance between the man in front of him and another beloved face that he could not yet bring himself to properly think of.

"You're Brendan? Brendan Brady?" the nurse asked, a very pronounced Birmingham accent making itself known. Brendan put the newspaper he had been pretending to read down into his lap.

"That's the name, don't wear it out," Brendan said with an upward quirk to his mouth. The nurse stuck out a hand eagerly as an offering.

"Hi, let me introduce myself. My name's Josh."

He raised an eyebrow at the hand, leaving the gesture unreciprocated.

"That isn't your name."

"I'm sorry?"

"It's not your name, it's an abbreviation."

"Erm... okay. Well you're right obviously, it's short for Joshua, but no-one but my mum calls me that."

"Joshua... good name. Sixth book of the Bible."

"You religious or something?"

"Catholic."

"Isn't that the same?"

Brendan smirked, but ignored the question.

"So what can I do you for Joshua?"

Josh looked momentarily confused before reaching down next to him, holding a thick card envelope out to Brendan. Brendan hesitated, but took it when he noticed his name neatly printed on the front in a thick black marker.

"I said that I'd pass this on to you. Someone handed it in to Dawn at the front desk and she asked me to deliver it."

Ripping open the card tab, Brendan retrieved several photographs from their hiding place. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of Leah's cheek pressed into his, the uncertainty in his own expression from another lifetime. He turned to the next image in the pile - the photo that Leah had taken of Brendan and Ste the day they had spent having a family lunch at the pub.

"Do you mind if I have a look?" Josh asked. Brendan had forgotten about his company, had forgotten the nerves and the shiver of desire from just a few minutes earlier. He handed the photographs over with a shrug.

"Help yourself."

Josh studied the images, looking up at Brendan questioningly.

"This girl... I'm sure I recognise her. She visits you right? Is she your daughter?"

"Not sure she'd thank you for saying that. No, she's not."

"Oh. Sorry, I shouldn't jump to conclusions. I just meant - she's a pretty girl."

"Yeah she is," Brendan said, gesturing at Leah's picture, "and I haven't really had visitors. Not yet anyway. My doctors aren't sure it's time for that just yet."

"Really? It's just that you seem -"

"Sane? Evidently not," Brendan quipped, leading Josh to offer him an embarrassed grin in apology.

"Well maybe you should bring it up with your doctor again. Seems like you're ready to me."

Brendan nodded as he watched Josh walk away, but he knew that he had no intention of speaking to Doctor Mansour about Leah, or anyone else for that matter. The doctor had said nothing of visitors, but Brendan knew that he wasn't ready for other people; he wasn't ready for the bubble of isolation that was protecting him to be burst. The only outsider he had been able to tolerate was his sister, but even her presence was jarring and vaguely irritating. Cheryl had been managing the club for him during his convalescence, and Brendan tried his best to bring the conversation around to work at every opportunity, despite Cheryl's reticence.

It was a surprise to her too when Brendan presented her with the envelope and its contents during visiting hours that weekend. He watched silently and with his arms folded as Cheryl slipped the photographs out of the sleeve into her hands, eyebrows raising in astonishment.

"Where did you get these?" she asked, examining the packaging for clues. Brendan shrugged, pressing his fingers into the corners of his eyes until the pressure on his eyeballs hurt.

"A nurse gave them to me. Said he'd seen Leah hanging around the reception, so I'm guessing that she dropped them off."

"Yeah, I suppose that makes sense. I think she's been worried about you."

Brendan sat up a little at that.

"How do you know that Chez? Have you seen her?"

Cheryl, suddenly aware of giving too much away, busied herself with depositing the pictures back into their envelope.

"Not exactly no."

"Chez? Am I talking to myself here or what?" Brendan prompted when Cheryl seemed reluctant to elaborate. Eventually she sighed and looked up at her brother with something like guilt on her face.

"Okay,fine. No, I haven't seen her, but she's messaged me and asked how you are."

"And you haven't seen her because..."

"I... well, me and Ste gave had a sort of falling out."

Brendan cocked his head at Cheryl's admission and the mention of Ste's name.

"Why? What's happened with you and Steven?"

"Oh Bren, it's a long story and I'm not getting into it now."

"What do you mean you're not getting into it now? Is Steven okay?"

"Oh aye, I'm sure he's just grand."

"And what's that supposed to mean Chez eh?"

"You're not getting anymore out of me. You are supposed to be focused on you, on getting out of here. Not worrying about Ste or anyone else for that matter."

The stubborn expression on Cheryl's face was so familiar that, despite the context, made Brendan smile.

"If you say so Chez."

She was resisting the urge to smile in return, Brendan could tell. He could always tell with his Cheryl. She reached across the circular table they were sat at, just the two of them. There were other tables scattered around the recreation room where other visits were taking place, as well as some people taking a more casual seat at the nest of sofas that were positioned around the television. Brendan offered one of his hands to his sister and they sat like that for a while, hands clasped comfortably.

"You're looking better," Cheryl murmured, touching a manicured nail to his newly shaven chin.

"You think?"

"Why, don't you feel it?"

"I don't know Chez. Honestly, part of me just wants to hide in my room here and never come out."

"But you never would have admitted to that a few months ago Bren. If that's not a sign of improvement then I don't know what is."

That night Brendan dreamt of Steven. It was as though the mention of his name alone had been sufficient to conjure him up. In the dream he was walking next to Ste in a city he vaguely recognised but couldn't put a name to, as was so often the case in dreams. Ste seemed to be happy, radiant, sunshine illuminating his tanned skin and sunglasses shielding Brendan's view of his eyes. He could however imagine the fine lines wrought from regular laughter scattered there, the fan of eyelashes framing them. There was space between him and Ste on the pavement; it took him a second to realise why. Ste was holding hands with a child of about five or six, a dark haired little girl who gazed up at Brendan with adoration, and with eyes just like his.

"Daddy?" the little girl said, and the shock of that one word roused Brendan from the dreamscape. His eyes snapped open and he found himself at the very edge of the bed, about to fall. He sat up and put a hand against his pounding heart. It had been too real; it had been like looking into an alternate reality where Brendan had allowed himself to be happy, rather than destroying his life systematically, piece by piece.

It was unsettling. What was more, this one dream paved the way for more. Just like with the return of his libido, the ability to dream at night came back swiftly, a rush of water after the bursting of the banks.

* * *

Gradually a life of sorts took shape. With the return of his subconscious self, Brendan found it easier to communicate outwardly too. Cheryl had the company of Joel on one of her visits, and to Brendan's surprise and relief, the whole event was relatively painless, with none of the awkwardness that he had previously feared. With each subsequent interaction with his sister, Brendan noticed that her shoulders were gradually relaxing, and that her face even began to look more youthful without the constant taut strain of anxiety: the anxiety that he had caused her for so long.

He also began to have regular conversations with Josh during his afternoons in the recreation room. The nurse was endlessly cheerful, and if he ever felt any stress from the challenges of his job then he certainly never showed it. Brendan was attracted to him; the very fact of those emotions being stirred left Brendan feeling that little bit more human. It gave him a tentative hope for the future, a future that had seemed so uncertain just weeks earlier.

The wonderful thing about Josh was that he represented safe territory. He was a lad's lad who lived with his girlfriend Molly and was obsessed with football. Without the fear of becoming emotionally involved, Brendan could listen to the impassioned ramblings about Villa's latest forward with a fond but detached amusement. In turn, Brendan taught Josh how to play chess, one of the few things in his life that he had developed patience for. Josh was a safe crush, a harmless fantasy that Brendan used to get through the lonely evenings. He stopped any imaginings about anybody else dead in their tracks. Brendan simply couldn't allow himself to think about Ste and what was going on in the world outside; couldn't allow any expectations of the after to embed in his heart.

Because he knew now that there _would_ be an after. Although his assertions that Irish Catholics solved their problems with brooding and booze sometimes made his progress slower than it might otherwise have been, Brendan knew that progress _was_ taking place. It was becoming clear that his time on the Maple ward would come to an end, and that he was winning the battle against the darkness.

It was this realisation that led to his asking Cheryl to contact Leah and see if she still wanted to visit. When she arrived she stepped sheepishly into the recreation room with Cheryl close behind her, almost acting as protection. Brendan was sitting staring intently at the chess board in front of him, grumbling indistinctly at Josh's shrewd move that had landed him in check. A polite cough from Josh caused Brendan to raise his head in irritation at the interruption, although the frown on his face dissipated swiftly when he caught sight of the visitors.

"Leah?" Brendan asked quietly as he rose from his seat, heart fluttering nervously in his chest. His uncertainty seemed to spur Leah on, and she proceeded to fold Brendan into her arms carefully, as though he was made of glass. It was disconcerting; it was beautiful. Brendan breathed her in, the sunny citrus scent of her hair and the familiar hint of a teenage perfume that had faded on her skin. They embraced for a long moment, and when he released her Brendan knew that the pools of tears gathered in Leah's eyes would be mirrored in his own. He was becoming alarmingly sentimental.

"Does anyone want a drink?" Josh asked, tactfully excusing himself from the situation. Cheryl nodded and smiled, linking her arm through the nurse's in an amiable gesture.

"I'll help you love."

Brendan gestured to the seat that had just been vacated by Josh, the chess game abandoned in the centre of the table. Leah took the proffered seat, delicately picking up one of Brendan's remaining knights, the ebony gloss on the piece catching the light as she turned it over in her fingers.

"You know how to play this?" Leah asked, and Brendan recognised it for what it was: the urge for small talk. Small talk was safe.

"I certainly do. Have you ever played?"

"No," Leah shook her head a little. Brendan leaned over and took the knight from her grip, holding it out in the flat of his palm.

"Well, each different shaped piece has a name and a different use. This one is the knight, and it's the only piece that's allowed to jump over others. You can move it here," he explained, miming the movements on the board, "or here like this."

One look at Leah's uncomprehending expression caused Brendan to let out a bark of laughter.

"It's a complicated game."

Leah smiled ruefully and took the knight back from Brendan.

"Well I guess it suits. You're a complicated person."

"Touché," Brendan replied with a grin, leaning back in his seat and allowing himself to relax a little. Leah hadn't run away screaming yet - a good sign. Perhaps he really was ready to step up his reintroduction into the outside world.

"You look well," Leah said softly, an uneasy glance accompanying the words that reminded Brendan of Amy. She was clearly snatching brief chances to look at him, trying to study him without being seen to scrutinise.

"Thank you."

Brendan pulled at the body of his grey t-shirt self consciously. It was loose on his torso; he had lost weight as well as muscle definition during his stay on the ward. The last thing he had felt like doing was working out - in his previous life running and pushing his body to its limit had been yet another of his horribly inadequate coping mechanisms. He had to have other ways to deal with pain now.

"I wasn't sure. I thought that -"

"That I'd be gagged and tied to the bed in a straitjacket? They save that for the weekends."

Brendan's irreverence was meant for an adult, and he realised this half a second too late as he watched Leah's face fold into a distressed frown.

"Leah - god, I'm sorry. It was meant to be a joke."

"I get it, it's okay. I guess... I just imagined the worst."

"That's understandable. It's human nature to imagine the worst when we haven't seen things with our own eyes."

Brendan's mind unhelpfully flashed back briefly into the days of the darkness, to the terror of restraints that were there to prevent him from scratching out his own eyes, saving him from himself. He blinked furiously, attempting to dispel the echoes of madness.

"You are feeling better though?"

Brendan realised that Leah had asked him a question that he didn't really have an answer to.

"I'm getting there Leah."

An uneasy silence descended. Brendan hadn't a clue where to begin.

"I wanted to... er... thank you. For the photographs. I was glad to get them."

He certainly didn't expect the blank expression across Leah's face.

"Photographs?"

Brendan felt as though he had missed a step somewhere.

"Yeah, you know, the ones you took last Christmas. I was told that you came to the reception and gave them in?"

Leah shook her head firmly.

"Not me. It must have..." she paused, unsure of whether to continue.

"Must have what?" Brendan pressed, unvoiced hopes crawling into his brain, taking root.

"Well, it must have been my dad."

Brendan swallowed thickly.

"Your da?"

Leah fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable.

"He used to visit the hospital when you were first here, but they wouldn't let him see you. Maybe he left them back then..."

So Ste had left the envelope. But why? What meaning was Brendan supposed to glean from the unexplained action? Something else in Leah's answer pulled for his attention.

"He used to visit... so your da hasn't tried for a while I take it?"

He wanted his voice to sound casual, a meaningless query, but the sympathetic turn of Leah's mouth suggested that he hadn't really succeeded.

"He's moved to this new restaurant in Manchester - he's been dead busy with it you see, it's doing really well."

"That's good, that's..." he trailed off with a nod, trying to smile reassuringly. Leah looked desperately sad, too sad for someone with so much of her life ahead of her.

"Brendan, you know that I'm always in your corner. You remember that, right?"

A soft hand touched his across the table, and he took it without a thought, gladly taking the warmth and support that was offered.

"Not sure I deserve that sweetheart, but I'm grateful."

"I don't want you to be grateful, I want you to listen to me. You have to get better quickly, okay? You _have_ to get out of here."

"Why the sudden urgency?"

Leah took a deep breath and squeezed the hand holding hers.

"You need to get out, because dad's engaged. He's getting married Brendan."

* * *

 _"What was the nightmare about?"_

 _"Jam."_

 _"Jam?"_

 _"Yeah, jam. Raspberry seeds stuck in his front teeth. They're still there in the morning when I wake up, except instead of being in his teeth they're in mine."_

 _"The seeds?"_

 _"Mmm. I have to get up, you know, and brush my teeth. Just to make sure."_

 _"Is it a worse dream than the one with the cigarette smoke?"_

 _"How would I know? It is what it is, how can I tell what's better or worse? A nightmare's a nightmare."_

 _"You could perhaps tell if one is more intense than the other."_

 _Pause._

 _"It used to make me sick. The one with the seeds because - I couldn't get them out. Of my mouth."_

 _"Does this stem from a real memory of yours?"_

 _"Ha. All my nightmares are memories. In fact, 'nightmare' is just another word for them."_

 _"That's not entirely true. You have some dreams that have never been a reality. You've dreamt about people that are alive being dead for example."_

 _"Have I?"_

 _"Don't be purposely obtuse. What about Ste's grave?"_

 _"Well I suppose you'll tell me that it's symbolic or something."_

 _"Symbolic of what?"_

 _"You're the fucking psychiatrist, you tell me."_

 _"The terms psychiatrist and mind reader aren't interchangeable Brendan, despite your belief to the contrary."_

 _"Someone can be dead to you without them being in the ground, I'd have thought that was obvious enough."_

 _"So it's a dream of self preservation then? Cutting him out before he cuts himself out with his marriage?"_

 _"Wow doc, talk about rubbing salt into the wound."_

 _"So it does hurt you then. The thought of this wedding?"_

 _"It's pure fucking agony. But it's what I deserve."_

 _"Brendan, I don't know how many times I have to say this. I want to help you get back to normal, for you to go back to living your life and to forget as much as possible about your time here. But when you say things like that it makes me wonder if we have really made any progress at all. You did not deserve the abuse you suffered as a child, and you do not deserve to lose the love of your life to somebody else."_

 _"You were right. About self preservation."_

 _"Really?"_

 _"Yeah. I always buy the seedless jam now. See? Self preservation."_

 _"It's not funny Brendan."_

 _"I'm not laughing doc."_

 _"He brought those photos for **you**."_

 _"Fucks sake, I wish I'd never mentioned them."_

 _"Well -"_

 _"Well, sometimes it's more important to let the person you love be happy, no matter your personal feelings on the subject."_

 _"That's... terribly sad."_

 _Pause._

 _"I was happier talking about jam doc, you know that?"_

* * *

 **A/N: Firstly, a huge apology for taking such a long time to update. I have been on a long holiday that my laptop did not join me on, so I couldn't get this typed up until getting back home this week. Normal service will resume now that I am back!**

 **Next chapter will see Ste and Brendan reunited after their life altering time apart. Three more chapters to go, including one that will probably be long enough to be a stand alone story all of its own! I hope my absence has increased rather than decreased the appetite for more and I'm as ever grateful for all of the lovely comments from readers xx**


	31. Chapter 31

31.

It is past midnight. It has been raining, and there are droplets streaked across the windows like undiscovered constellations. It is Ste's favourite time - when the customers have gone and the staff have filed out for the evening. Peace settles over the restaurant and it fills with a quiet that seems unnatural for the space; it is a space meant for life, for conversation. Nevertheless, the silence is welcome after the incessant racket of a successful service. Full dinner services for the past month have left Ste satisfied but almost deliriously exhausted, such is the byproduct of success. Unexpected popularity had left Ste more determined than ever to get it right, to chase innovation with everything that was in him.

Before him on the counter is the result of his entry on to the UK's best restaurants list - a new contract in a new place to become executive chef. It is a cliché, but it truly _is_ a dream come true, and his signature had been added to the paperwork as swiftly as was humanly possible. Ste's fingers trace over the numbers that represent his potential new salary - numbers that Ste couldn't even have imagined when he had begun his career with Tony all those years ago.

He twists the palladium band on his finger in a way that is fast becoming habit. He had heard once that having the urge to fiddle with a wedding ring was a bad sign; that the discomfort was somehow an indication that the marriage wasn't destined to be a happy one. Ste wonders if the same could be applied to engagement rings, but tells himself for the umpteenth time that the action is a harmless habit that stems from not being used to the presence of the metal. It does strike him as odd though that the conductive material of the ring does not seem to warm with his skin in the way that metal should. His mind wanders to their experience of shopping for rings, the look of devastation that had crossed Ben's face as Ste suggested that it would be safer to perhaps not wear one in the kitchen after all. Ben had tried to shrug it off, had taken Ste's hand and told him that it was up to him of course, but it had been too late. Ste had already seen the hurt in his partner's eyes and it couldn't be quickly erased. The guilt of what he had done to Ben had proved to be a powerful motivator, and an engagement ring had been bought despite any reservations.

Ste glances at his watch, knowing that he cannot linger for much longer. Home beckons. For some reason though, tonight he is not quite ready, so instead he makes his way behind the bar, leaning into the fridge to pull out a chilled beer bottle. As he straightens up he catches sight of a figure at the window, and it makes him jump: firstly with the shock at finding himself being observed, and secondly because he realises that the observer is achingly familiar to him. They stand for a moment like this, eyes locked, before Ste snaps out of it and makes his way to the door. He twists the bundle of keys in the lock and steps out of the way to let Brendan cross over the threshold.

Ste feels his heart thumping erratically, sudden adrenaline coursing its way through his veins. He can't stop staring at the man in front of him, drinking him in as though fearing he is a figment of imagination that will slip away at any moment. Brendan is wearing a dark top and jeans, leather jacket unzipped. He looks slimmer, more fragile somehow, his stubbled jaw all angles and shadow. The word 'beautiful' pops into Ste's head unbidden as he gazes into steely blue eyes that are no longer ringed by troubled dark circles. He seems, if not exactly calm, then more collected, less haunted, and it takes an extraordinary effort not to reach out and touch him.

Clearing his throat nervously, Ste steps back a little, running his hands across his bare forearms to dispel the goosebumps that have formed there. He does not miss Brendan's flinch as Ste increases the distance between the two of them.

"Cheryl told me you were back."

"Did she now. Made up then have you?"

"Yeah. I mean, it weren't anything really were it."

"I wouldn't know Steven, I've been otherwise engaged."

Ste shivers when Brendan says his name; he can't help it. He provokes this visceral reaction in Ste without even having to try, evoking a need so strong that it makes his mouth go dry and his heart feel as though it has dropped into his stomach.

He had been glad to mend his fences with Cheryl, though there had been no concrete answer to precisely why things had gotten so strained between them. Ste knew that, while she blamed herself for what had happened with Brendan, there was a large part of her that also held Ste responsible. Despite this she had turned up at the house with flowers, perfumed kisses and apologies, and Ste had gratefully accepted. After all, he reasoned that they had been friends for so many years and had overcome so much that it would have been a waste to throw it all away, especially when it had obviously taken a lot for Cheryl to make the first move. Rocking the boat with lengthy conversations about where the fault lay had seemed like an exercise in futility, so Ste had let it lie.

"What are you doing here Brendan?" he asks, more harshly than intended.

"Not very hospitable Steven, especially coming from an expert in the hospitality industry."

Ste groans, rolling his eyes. He is bone tired, had forgotten how Brendan can play with words, play with Ste's mind as though it is a frayed elastic band on the brink of being snapped.

"That's not - I didn't mean it like that. I'm glad to see you, I am."

Something in Brendan's expression softens.

"Are you?"

So glad that it's taking all of my remaining energy reserves not to throw myself into your arms, he thinks; so glad that the temptation to touch my mouth to yours is almost too much to bear.

"Yeah. Course," Ste says, for the moment not trusting himself to elaborate further. Brendan lets out a frustrated breath - clearly he expected more.

"I had some questions for you, and I wanted to catch you alone. I came by earlier, thought I might see you, but the place was heaving."

Ste places his hands on the back of the nearest chair, leans his weight on it a little for a modicum of support.

"You were here? Tonight?"

Brendan gestures with restless fingers at one of the small tables in the corner by the window.

"Mmhmm. Table for one, right over there."

"Table 36," Ste says almost instantly, thinking back to the evening's service, "you had the blade of beef."

"That's a good memory you've got there."

"Not really. One of my waiters was convinced you was a food critic. Don't often do tables for one you see."

"Didn't think to come and check?"

"Too busy weren't I," Ste said, glancing back towards the kitchen, almost hearing the echoes of the frenetic noise of service.

"If I'm honest, I'm glad. Gave me a chance to taste your food," Brendan murmurs, fixing Ste with a look so intense that he has to drop his eyes down to stare at the tanned knuckles of his own hands.

"So, what did you think then?" Ste asked shyly, risking another glimpse into Brendan's face. He so badly wants to kiss him, to show him how much it means to have him here, because any words he has are hopelessly inadequate.

"It was sensational..."

The way Brendan says this, as though they are in bed after a night of passion, as though it is a promise of further pleasure to come, sends a shudder through Ste's entire body. He thinks Brendan must have noticed the tremors, because his mouth turns up at the corners in a smirk of satisfaction that is trademark Brendan. After the briefest of moments, too brief in Ste's mind, he feels a hand over his. Brendan picks up Ste's left hand with his, without a break in their eye contact, and traces a finger around the palladium band that now resides there.

"This is new Steven."

Ste is torn by the urge to tear his hand away or to stay in Brendan's grasp despite the obvious discomfort his observation has caused. He chooses the latter, because he is unsure if he could survive without the contact, uncomfortable or not.

"Yeah... I'm erm... getting married, aren't I."

"Your Leah might have mentioned it."

"Hang on, what? Our Leah?"

"Mmm. So when's the big day?"

He finally drops his hand away from Brendan, steps back from him, even though the loss of the other man's heat and scent is almost physically painful.

"No Brendan, don't change the subject right, when did you speak to our Leah?"

The lust and warmth that had been evident in Brendan's eyes just moments earlier is replaced with fire and rage. Clearly the months in hospital haven't altered him that much; Ste isn't sure whether to feel relief or frustration at this.

"She came to visit me."

"When? She never said -"

"Why didn't _you_ visit me?"

The anger in Brendan's voice belies the pain that Ste sees on his face. A lump of guilt, solid and leaden, lodges in Ste's throat. He looks at the floor as his face colours in shame.

"I... I thought about it -"

"Oh, you _thought_ about it, that's okay then. I can rest easy knowing that you _thought_ about it -"

"Brendan, please," Ste begs, because he can't stand the bitterness, not when he so deserves it, "I didn't think you'd want to see me, I mean, we'd broken up, hadn't we, and -"

Brendan's hands are on Ste's face so quickly that it leaves Ste a little dizzy, uncertain of exactly how they had ended up so close once more. A force stronger than gravity propels them together; sometimes it seems inescapable.

"Don't make it sound like we're kids in the playground Steven. Is that what we are, is that what this is?"

"No..." Ste whispers, and Brendan sighs, leaning his forehead against Ste's intimately. Ste is frightened and thrilled all at once: frightened because he thinks Brendan might kiss him, and that he would kiss him back with equal fervour; thrilled for much the same reason. Brendan breathes deeply against his skin before moving away, collapsing into the nearest chair. There is disappointment in the air, so tangible that Ste can almost taste it.

"The photographs - why?"

Ste stands helplessly, watching Brendan, who is no longer looking at him. Instead he is holding the bridge of his nose in a gesture that indicates exhaustion.

"Brendan I - you have to understand right, I had to make a choice, and I couldn't put my life on hold, not again -"

"I was in _hospital_ Steven."

Ste flinches, recalling Leah's words from months ago -

 _"He's sick, and we're all playing happy families as if he was never here..."_

His daughter is better than him: she is made of stronger stuff.

"I didn't say that I should be proud of how I behaved did I? I know it doesn't make me a good person right, but I had to... keep going. But I _was_ still thinking about you -"

"That's touching Steven, really, I'm welling up here -"

Ste raises his voice, doesn't want Brendan to be flippant, to stop him getting his words out.

"- And they wouldn't let me see you. I was imagining all sorts."

"Yeah? Whereas actually living it was a real picnic."

Their eyes meet once more, and Ste wills Brendan not to look away.

"It made sense in my head at the time okay? I just wanted to leave you something for when you were feeling better, something so that - so that -"

"So that?"

"So that you knew. That we were thinking of you. Leah and me. That you'd know that you were loved."

Brendan looks like he is trying to read Ste's face; there is an intensity there that makes Ste's cheeks heat up, makes him look away.

"Probably sounds pretty stupid -"

"No. It doesn't. Maybe leave a note explaining next time I'm sectioned though, leaves things less open to interpretation."

"Don't be like that."

"Like what?"

"All sarcastic and that."

There is a slight smile on Brendan's face in response, an upturn of his mouth so subtle that only someone who really knew him would see it. Ste is emboldened by it and he smiles shyly in return.

"I've missed you, you know."

Brendan raises a cynical eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest as he does so.

"You can't have had much time spare to miss me what with all this. Running a city centre restaurant must be keeping you busy."

An idea appears fully formed in Ste's head, as though it had always been in residence there. Retrieving the paperwork he had been studying earlier, Ste places it down in front of Brendan, taking a seat opposite him as he does so.

"I haven't told anyone about this yet, but the company have offered me a new job. It's as executive chef of an entire hotel. I'd have a fine dining restaurant and all of the other food too."

Brendan whistles through his teeth as he scans the first page of the contract.

"That's quite a step up Steven."

"I know, it's dead exciting isn't it? Imagine it, scally Ste with a restaurant empire, who'd have thought it eh?"

"I would have. Always knew you were capable of great things."

The honesty in Brendan's tone momentarily disarms Ste. He swallows audibly, pointing to a particular section of the contract with a trembling finger.

"The hotel... it's in Dublin."

* * *

"Dublin."

Their voices had said it in unison, one timid, hesitant; the other disbelieving. Brendan sat back, allowing the chair's back to take the strain of the tension gathered in his shoulders. Ste was watching Brendan carefully, measuring his reactions, and this more than anything made Brendan snort with ironic laughter. Because, of course Ste was moving to Dublin, where else would it be? That was the 'mysterious way' God moved, at least in Brendan's case - showing yet again that the higher power he believed in had one hell of a sense of humour.

"Say something Brendan, please."

What could he say? Brendan wasn't sure what Ste wanted from him.

"I'm happy for you Steven."

"Are you though? Because -"

"Jesus Christ, do you want me to disapprove, is that it?"

"No, but... well, it's Dublin isn't it. It's us."

Brendan nodded, suddenly understanding what Ste was getting at. He would move there with his husband, with a family that Brendan wasn't a part of - to the place that he had always thought of as theirs. It didn't sting, not yet, but Brendan knew that later, when he was lying alone in a bed in Hollyoaks and the shock had passed - he knew that it would smart then like vinegar applied to an open wound.

"What about Leah? Lucas?"

"I know. I feel bad about it because we've only just moved nearer to them, but they're teenagers aren't they. They're good kids, but even good kids don't really want to spend weekends with their dad. Probably see more of them to be honest, if I move somewhere that's new to them. They'll think it's exciting won't they."

"You've clearly given it some thought then."

"I want this. Want to see if I can do it. It might be my one shot."

Silence fell between them, a dead weight, as each man contemplated the many unsaid things that lay between them. Unsurprisingly, it was Ste who broke the deadlock.

"They've asked me to go over there in two weeks. See the place, meet the team. Would... would you maybe come with me?"

Brendan sucked in a breath as though it was painful, like taking fire directly into his lungs. This he hadn't expected. Ste's eyes widened at Brendan's reaction, and words fell out of him rapidly, trying to undo whatever damage he had done.

"I mean, you're from there and all, you could show me round, stop me getting lost. Hopeless at directions, me. And you could tell me where to look for houses and that, nice areas to live..."

He tailed off. Only one thing was running through Brendan's head over and over.

"Steven, I hate to remind you, really I do, but you are getting _married_ -"

"I didn't mean for you to come with me like that, not if... I didn't mean it like that."

"Shouldn't you be asking that fella of yours to go with you?"

"I want to go with you."

It was so simple, the truth of it, yet not simple at all. The answers Brendan had come for had instead only raised further questions, questions that he wasn't yet strong enough to ask out loud. 'Why me? Why can't I let go? Why am I not enough?' Claustrophobia settled on his skin like dust, causing Brendan to rise from his seat, the need for fresh air immediate and desperate.

"I have to go Steven. I need to not be here."

As he approached the door a hand caught his jacket sleeve.

"Brendan..." Ste said, and it sounded like a plea. Brendan couldn't bring himself to look Ste in the eye, knew that his willpower would crumble if he let himself acknowledge Ste's panicked cerulean gaze. He placed a hand over the one clutching his arm: this much he would allow himself, pads of the fingertips brushing the rough skin of knuckles.

"I'll think about it Steven, I swear it."

Slightly mollified, Ste let go of him, nodding, either unwilling or unable to say anything more.

"Okay," Brendan murmured, twisting the keys in the lock and stepping out into the night. As Brendan should have predicted, Ste was going to make it very hard to say goodbye.

* * *

Brendan got up from his desk, locking his hands straight in front of him to manipulate his back into a stretch. Grabbing his suit jacket from the peg on the back of the door, he made his way out into the club, nodding and smiling at the numerous patrons scattered around the first floor. The bar was busy, but he knew the team working that night would have it under control. On his return to Nolans he had been pleasantly surprised by the lack of staff turnover. Bar work often attracted transient workers, but Brendan paid well and had always tried to offer people shifts that would suit them; these tactics had clearly paid off. Brendan leant over the railings to check on the downstairs bar, breathing in the familiar scent of alcohol and the sweet aroma of the smoke machines with satisfaction. This was his place and he was happy in his work - it was a relief to be able to admit that to himself after spending so long in the darkness of his own head.

He caught sight of Stuart standing near the downstairs bar with Cheryl next to him. Stuart gestured for him to head over and Brendan obliged, weaving his way through customers who could always be relied upon to block the stairway. As he approached the pair it became clear that they were intently studying the folder where the rotas were kept. Brendan placed a hand on the small of Cheryl's back, pecking the cheek she offered affectionately.

"You okay sis?" he asked, raising his voice to try and make himself heard over the DJ. Cheryl was dressed up to the nines as usual, iridescent pink bow catching the light from amongst her curls, the dress she was wearing hugging every curve. She smiled warmly at Brendan, pointing the pen she was holding at the open folder.

"Aye babe, I'm grand. We're just sorting the rotas out for when I head back to Ireland, making sure there's enough cover."

The reminder that Cheryl was returning to her real life after over a year staying near Hollyoaks was bittersweet. Immeasurably grateful for her putting her life on hold, Brendan nevertheless felt pangs of guilt for allowing her to do so. It had always been his job to look after her, and the tables being turned was not something Brendan found easy to swallow. Cheryl had never complained, not once, and Brendan marvelled as he often did about her steadfast loyalty. She was still reluctant to leave him; he had had to sit Cheryl down with his doctor in order to convince her that it was fine, that _he_ was fine.

"There's plenty of cover Chez. Got too many staff if anything at the moment."

Stuart flicked the page over to show the following week.

"We've got four days in a row here where you've not been put in Brendan, not sure what Sophie was thinking. One of us will have to go through it with her. So shall I put you in on the lates for the Tuesday and Thursday?"

Brendan glanced at his sister uneasily.

"Sophie's not got it wrong. I'm taking some annual leave, so..."

Without even looking at Cheryl he could feel the intensity of her stare.

"You _never_ take annual leave Bren. I don't think I've ever even heard you utter the phrase 'annual leave'."

"No? Just think of it as part of my turning over a new leaf. Self care or some other bollocks."

"Brendan -"

Thankfully Stuart was still concentrated on the rota, pulling the paper from it's plastic wallet and taking the pen from Cheryl's grip.

"Well, as you say, it's not as if we haven't got enough staff. I'll just swap my shifts here to make sure they're all okay."

"Brendan-"

"Excellent idea. You know Stuart, I knew there was a reason I employed you."

"Brendan!"

"Jesus Chez, I know we're in a club but there's no need to blow my eardrums out."

"Well don't ignore me then. Where are you going for this annual leave? And don't even _think_ about lying."

Brendan thought about lying anyway, but knew that she would find out somehow, that really lying only ever prolonged the inevitable where Cheryl was concerned.

"Dublin. I'm going to Dublin."

"That's where you're from isn't it? Must have been a long time, bet you're looking forward to it," Stuart said with a smile, in direct contrast to Cheryl who was stood beside him wearing a decidedly stony expression.

"Yeah, long time, but now I'm free to travel again where better to start than home eh?"

"Erm Brendan, can I have a word with you? In private please?" Cheryl asked with a downturned pinch to her mouth. Well, he couldn't pretend that he hadn't seen this coming, as his sister never missed an opportunity to lecture him, habitually masking her fear with anger. He scratched his stubbled jaw with two fingers before nodding. Cheryl didn't wait to see if he was following, and immediately headed for the staircase with her lips set in a scowl, determinedly ignoring the glances she received from onlookers.

"Could never accuse you of lacking in drama eh?" Stuart said wryly, shaking his head a little. Brendan huffed a humourless laugh at the truth of it.

"Never a dull moment, that's for sure."

"I'll just stay put and fix these shall I?"

"Yeah mate, thanks, you do that," Brendan said, patting Stuart's shoulder as he walked away.

The club was busier now, and Brendan had to maneuver his way around dancing sequins, open necked shirts damp with heat and denim hot pants that clung like a second skin. The room writhed with promise, with the opportunity afforded by an incandescent cocktail and a darkened dancefloor. Brendan felt a rush of adrenaline just from being amongst it all. He knew from Cheryl that this had been the place where he had finally unravelled, though he still had no memory of it. She had been worried, as was Cheryl's wont, that Brendan would find Nolans too traumatic after everything, but in fact the opposite was true. He had finally separated past from present, could finally enjoy being his own boss once more. He was Brendan Brady after all, and Brendan Brady was a confident, fearless club owner who belonged just where he was.

Despite this confident and fearless persona, Brendan still flinched internally when he closed the door to the office and came face to face with his scowling sister.

"You going to tell me what the hell is going on?"

The whiskey on the sideboard suddenly looked mightily tempting, and Brendan crossed to it, pouring into two glasses. He held one out to Cheryl, who merely crossed her arms and stared at him in response.

"No? Go on Chez, you could use it, calm you down."

Wrong thing to say, Brendan thought the moment the words had left his mouth, as Cheryl's eyes grew even wider, and looking as though she might begin to spit fire.

"I do not need to _calm down_ , I need a straight answer from you for a change."

"Jesus Chez, didn't think you'd begrudge me a little holiday after everything."

"No don't do that, don't try and make me feel guilty. You're going to Dublin with Ste aren't you?"

Brendan swilled his whiskey around the glass, took an exaggeratedly casual sip.

"Well, since you mention it -"

Cheryl let out an exasperated groan, grabbing the glass out of Brendan's hand before he had a chance to react, slamming it down onto the desk with a force that seemed to make the doorframe rattle.

"What are you playing at? He's getting married for god's sake."

"Really Chez, thanks for the update, no-one had mentioned it," Brendan said, pacing on the spot and picking the glass back up for something to do with his hands.

"This is all going to end in tears. I don't want you to get hurt Bren."

"I won't. Chez, I know what I'm doing, okay? Please, just this once, can't you trust me?"

The anger had ebbed from Cheryl, and like a marionette whose strings had been cut, she sank down to the sofa, seemingly exhausted.

"You know as well as I do what'll happen if you go," Cheryl said quietly, "and it's not fair on anyone. I mean, don't bite my head off, but what about Ben?"

Whiskey drained, Brendan replaced the glass on the sideboard and sat next to Cheryl, sighing deeply.

"He knows Chez."

Cheryl's head snapped up at that, surprise crowding out the worry on her features.

"What do you mean? He knows -"

"That Steven and I are going to Dublin. He came to see me."

It had always taken a lot to render his sister speechless, and Brendan felt a grim sort of satisfaction that he'd managed it.

* * *

To be fair to Cheryl, it had been a shock to Brendan too when Ben had turned up at the flat a couple of days earlier. He had rang the buzzer as Brendan had been sat at the kitchen counter eating cereal, still dressed in vest and joggers from his morning run. At first he had frowned at the image on the intercom screen, unable to place the man standing on the doorstep until he uttered his name. It was as though Brendan had blocked out the existence of Ben entirely, and his appearance was an unwelcome reminder of the situation as it stood: Ste was going to live happily ever after in Brendan's hometown, with this man. Brendan buzzed him in, hesitating for a moment before zipping on the hoodie that he had left slung over the sofa. He wondered if Ben was there to warn him off; such a clichéd reaction to the recurring threat of the ex. What could he possibly say that Brendan didn't already know with painful clarity?

As Ben crossed his threshold, Brendan felt his whole body tense. The man was dark haired, handsome, polished. Mentally stable too, as far as Brendan knew, so another box ticked. Brendan thought about offering him a drink, but decided against it; after all this clearly wasn't a social call, and they were hardly bosom buddies.

"I'm sorry for turning up here unannounced," Ben began, causing Brendan to sneer harshly.

"No, you're not. At least do me the courtesy of being honest with me when standing in _my_ living room."

"Okay, fine. I wanted to catch you off guard."

Brendan leant against the breakfast bar, folding his arms tightly in front of him.

"Mission accomplished."

Ben studied Brendan carefully for a moment; he tried not to flinch from the scrutiny.

"You look well."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"I'm not disappointed."

"What have I _just_ said about lying?" Brendan asked, leading Ben in to frowning slightly.

"I'm not lying. I'm not a monster you know, and as much as it galls me, there are people in my life who care about you, who'll suffer if you suffer. Cheryl for example. She seems glad to be heading home."

The heat of anger warmed Brendan's bones, the familiar nervous tension of it causing his fingertips to tingle.

"You didn't come here to talk about my sister," he said quietly, an unmistakable air of menace creeping into his tone. Ben sighed and brushed an unsteady hand through his hair.

"I don't understand it, I really don't. I've tried, but I just don't understand why Leah loves you so much. Why Ste... I mean, I can see what he sees in you physically -"

"You're making me blush over here -"

"- but handsome exteriors are no use if the person inside is ugly to the core."

If looks could kill then Ben would have dropped to the rug dead in that moment. Brendan knew the words were designed to wound, thrown at his weak points with all the accuracy of high caliber bullets.

"Maybe I have hidden depths," he said calmly, not allowing the rage inside to get the better of him.

"They must be very well hidden. Ste's told you about Dublin."

It was not phrased as a question. Brendan was momentarily thrown by the change of subject; he thought about denying it, but had a feeling that tactic would only prolong the current unpleasant encounter.

"He has. Talented, that boy."

"Man, not boy. He's not been a boy for a very long time."

Brendan rolled his eyes exaggeratedly so that there was no doubt what he thought of Ben's retort.

"It was a figure of speech."

"Sure, whatever. Anyway, he's going next week to see the place, to look for a house for us when we make the move."

Nothing that he hadn't already known of course, so Brendan grunted noncommittally. Ben waited for a minute or two before continuing, as though he was hoping for more of a response. When it was clear that nothing else was forthcoming, he let out a long breath of frustration. Brendan almost felt sorry for him.

"You already knew that of course, because I'm fairly certain that he's asked you to go with him."

"And let me guess, you're here to warn me off."

"On the contrary. I'm here to urge you to accept the invitation."

* * *

"He said what?" Cheryl spluttered, eyes wide in the dim light of the office. Brendan held up his hands with a shrug of his shoulders.

"I swear it. Trust me, I was surprised as you are."

"Bren, if you're making this up for some reason, I honestly can't even -"

"Woah woah, hang on a second, why would I make this up? Go and ask him if you don't believe me Chez."

"As if I could do that. So supposing this is all true then, what on earth was he thinking of saying that to you?"

* * *

It was a good question. Brendan had stared at Ben, unfolding his arms and waited for the punchline, but it did not arrive. Ben's skin had lost all of its colour, and Brendan could see for the first time what coming here must have cost him.

"You want a drink?" Brendan asked, gesturing at the kitchen, relenting a little on his unwelcoming demeanour.

Ben nodded, "you drink whiskey don't you?"

"Not normally at ten in the morning," Brendan murmured, glancing at his watch, before reaching into the cupboard that held glasses and spirits, pouring a healthy measure and pushing it across the breakfast bar towards his guest. Ben barely hesitated, downing half of the whiskey in one go and squeezing his eyes shut at the burn.

"Thanks. Turns out I needed that."

"You're not the first fella I've turned to drink."

"That I can believe," Ben said with a trace of humour. He seemed to have collected himself some, taking a more measured sip from his glass this time.

"I think you should go to Dublin Brendan. I'm serious."

"I can see that you're serious, my whiskey taking a battering is testament to that. What I don't understand is why?"

"I've realised a few things over the past few months. Ste has never gotten over you because it has always felt like unfinished business to him, it's never ended properly. There's always been something else coming between you, and Ste was left with all of these what ifs. He's never had a chance to say goodbye properly, and its prevented him from moving on."

Unable to stand still, Brendan began a circuit around the breakfast bar, his mind spinning at the proposition being place before him.

"So that's what you see this as? A chance to say goodbye?"

"A longer goodbye than I'd like of course, but yes. Take those four days and do what you have to do. But by the end of it, Ste has to know that it's finally done with. He has to be ready to move to Dublin with me, to get married and most importantly, to never see you again."

Halting his procession in front of Ben, Brendan looked the other man straight in the eye, considering his words.

"Do what I have to do?"

Pain, undisguised, flashed across Ben's face.

"I'm not stupid. I know what will happen if you go together. But I can live with it, as long as it's the end of it."

Brendan nodded, scratching his jaw in thought.

"This is all a fine idea, really it is, but aren't you forgetting something? What if Steven doesn't want to say goodbye? What then?"

Ben's expression hardened at that, his cornflower eyes turning glacial.

"If that happens, then it'll be over between us. I won't fight it this time. One thing is for certain, and it's that _this_ can't carry on. He has to make a decision, one way or another. But Brendan?"

"Hmmm?"

"Given that I'm the one proposing this, surely you must see... I'm confident that he won't choose you."

* * *

"So you're going?"

"You know I like a challenge Chez."

"Bren..." Cheryl said warningly, and Brendan acquiesced, dropping the flippant tone and leaning forward on the couch.

"I know. But Chez, look at it this way. If I'm going to lose him for good, then at least I'll get these last days with him. And if there's even the slightest chance that he decides otherwise, then isn't it worth it?"

Cheryl sighed, placing a hand on Brendan's hunched back comfortingly.

"I wish I could be sure that this is a good idea. Bren, what will happen if it doesn't turn out how you hope? Will _you_ be okay? Because at the end of the day, that's all I care about babe."

"Thought Steven was one of your best friends."

Cheryl shrugged.

"He is... but you're my brother. And I love you."

Brendan closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his shoulder into his sister's.

"You know me Chez, and you know I don't believe in happy endings. Not for me at least. But I have to try. I need to play this out Chez. Besides, if this _is_ it... well, I need to say goodbye too."

Cheryl pulled him into a hug, pressing her lipsticked mouth to Brendan's cheek. He knew there would be a stain there, but he didn't care. In his forty two years on earth, no-one had loved him longer, or more steadfastly than Cheryl, and her love meant everything to him. When they broke apart, Brendan saw the tears in her eyes, though she smiled at him anyway.

"If you're going to Dublin, you're going to need some new threads. Fancy a shopping trip?"

"Sounds like a plan."

The seal of approval was given: he was going.

And it was in that moment of realisation that his stomach began to flutter with the butterflies that had suddenly taken residence there.

* * *

 **A/N: So the next chapter is, as mentioned previously, nearly a story all of its own! Thank you to the readers and, in particular, the generous folk leaving reviews for the last chapter despite my lengthy absence, it means a lot. The end is in sight... xx**


	32. Chapter 32

32.

 _ **Day One**_

 _ **"I have returned after ten years to a corner  
and tell myself it is as real to sleep here  
as the twenty other corners I have slept in.  
More real, even, with this history's dent and fracture**_

 _ **splitting the atmosphere. And what I have been given  
is a delicate unravelling of wishes  
that leaves the future unspoken and the past  
unencountered and unaccounted for.**_

 _ **This city weaves itself so intimately  
it is hard to see, despite the tenacity of the river  
and the iron sky; and in its downpour and its vapour I am  
as much at home here as I will ever be."**_

 _ **(from In Belfast - Sinéad Morrissey)**_

* * *

"God I'm so sorry, bloody train was delayed wasn't it. You checked in?"

The butterflies had persisted, and even increased in quantity when Brendan arrived at Manchester airport at the allotted time only to find that Ste was nowhere to be seen. He headed to the row of brightly lit desks anyway, trying to stifle a simmering sense of unease flourishing in his gut. When Brendan finally caught sight of Ste's hassled face he had breathed a long sigh of relief - he hadn't changed his mind after all.

Brendan held up his brand new passport in answer to Ste's question, boarding pass sticking out of the top.

"All good to go. I'll wait here while you go get sorted shall I?"

Ste smiled brightly at Brendan, pulling his phone from his pocket and waving it in his face.

"No need, already checked in online didn't I. _I'm_ not a dinosaur."

They began the walk towards security, Ste wheeling a battered brown case behind him. Brendan pointed at it with an impatient finger.

"Ah, but I'm not stuck wheeling luggage through duty free. _You_ say dinosaur, _I_ say smart."

"Who the hell checks in a case for a four day trip?"

"Me," Brendan replied, gesturing along his body, as if to point out to Ste the importance of his sartorial choices. Ste let out a honking laugh as he unzipped his pale blue tracksuit top, throwing it into the tray presented to him by security.

"Whatever Brendan. Let's just see who gets through quicker when you've got all that stuff to take off."

Brendan unthreaded his belt from his jeans and placed it on top of Ste's discarded jacket, before proceeding to unfasten his watch. He leaned in close to his travelling partner as he did so.

"Thought you liked to watch me undress Steven," Brendan murmured into Ste's ear, smirking as he noticed colour leaping into his cheeks.

"I'd like to see you try it in here, you'd end up arrested."

"Be worth it to see you blush some more."

"I'm not blushing -"

"Remove your boots please," said the security man stationed at the scanner, motioning at Brendan and bringing the exchange to an abrupt halt.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Told you so," Ste remarked in a singsong voice once Brendan was eventually clear of the scanner. As he bent down to replace his boots, Brendan crooked a beckoning finger at Ste, who obediently crouched down next to him. Brendan looked into those shining, smiling eyes and nearly became overwhelmed.

"I'm going to wipe that smug look off your face Steven," he murmured with mock menace, reaching out to grab Ste's chin, drawing him close and kissing him firmly on the mouth, sliding his tongue against Ste's unsuspecting lips. It was not a drawn out kiss; he was well aware of the public setting, but when they drew apart, standing up and gathering the final items from the nearby tray, Brendan could see that it had had the desired effect. Ste was visibly flustered, and it was Brendan's turn to be smug. He pulled Ste's case behind him as they made their way up the nearest escalators towards the departure gates.

"Thought you didn't like dragging a case about?" Ste asked in an attempt to show he had regained his composure. Brendan glanced down at the man standing by his shoulder and shrugged.

"It's not so bad," he said, and Ste smiled, taking Brendan by surprise when he briefly threaded their free hands together, squeezing gently in thanks.

Because that had been what Brendan meant of course. Anything of Ste's could be tolerated; more than tolerated really, accepted, with no complaint. As they browsed duty free, as Ste picked up a limited edition aftershave and Brendan selected a high end whiskey, it struck him just how normal it all felt. Domestic, even. Weird because it didn't feel weird. Brendan stood at the cash desk and handed over his boarding pass. The fact was that nothing about this trip could be called normal. Brendan couldn't allow himself to fall for the illusion, he had to steel himself against the tide of emotions that were already laying siege to his head and heart. It wasn't forever and he needed to keep that fact at the forefront of his mind. No amount of flirtatious banter at the airport would change that.

After their visit to the duty free store, Brendan led the way up yet another escalator to reach the airline lounges, handing his passport and boarding pass over again. He had missed the freedom that travel afforded, but could freely admit to finding the routines required at airports tedious to say the least. It was like so many other unpleasant things in life; they were quickly forgotten once the terminals were left behind for more invigorating settings. Brendan supposed that if the interminable waiting remained fresh in the mind no-one would ever be eager to repeat the experience.

Travelling business, with the associated benefit of lounge access, did help to alleviate the boredom and mild claustrophobia somewhat. The lounge in question was a large space, a looping semicircle with glass encasing both sides, views of the parked planes and runway one way, a window facing back into the terminal the other. The whole place thrummed with excitable noise, a cacophony of children on iPads, or asking for a piece of cheese that they would never eat from the random assortment of food offered by the two buffet tables, which were spaced evenly across the room. Brendan was forced to quickly dodge an eager toddler in dungarees who was running full pelt towards his legs. He took a quick look at Ste, who hadn't even noticed the incident, and was instead making a beeline for a free table next to the external window, grinning enthusiastically.

"This is a good one isn't it? Good timing that. Can see the planes taking off and everything."

"Didn't realise I was going away with a five year old."

"Eh? Shut up. Nothing wrong with liking planes."

"If you say so Steven," Brendan replied, sitting down and spreading himself across two seats in order to discourage anyone else sitting next to them. Ste rolled his eyes elaborately and announced his intention of checking the bar out.

He returned some minutes later, holding two glasses of sparkling wine. Perching himself on the seat opposite Brendan, Ste held out one of the drinks to him - it was full to the brim and spilt over Brendan's fingers as it was handed over.

"Bit posh in here isn't it? Didn't expect actual champagne."

"You could've got more in these glasses I reckon," Brendan observed sarcastically, putting the champagne to his lips and shaking his dripping fingers to emphasise his point.

"Didn't want them to run out did I."

You can take the boy out of the council estate but you can't take the council estate out of the boy, Brendan thought to himself.

"They won't run out Steven, it needs to be stocked all day and it's only eight thirty."

Ste sipped his drink, taking a glance at his watch as he did so.

"God yeah, you're right. Weird how time seems to stand still in airports isn't it?"

Brendan wasn't really listening; instead his gaze had been drawn to Ste's champagne moistened lips, leading him to imagine the taste of the bubbles that he would have access to if he dared to reach across the table and press their mouths together. There was a strange look on Ste's face, as if he could see what Brendan was thinking. Brendan shook himself mentally and focused back in on the conversation: there would be time later for such thoughts after all, time when those thoughts could be converted into actions.

"It's to do with the lighting."

"Huh?"

"The artificial lights - they're everywhere. They do it so that you don't notice the time passing so much. They do it in Vegas too. Go into a casino at eight in the morning and you'll still be gambling come midnight."

"You been? To Vegas?"

"Mmhmm. Long time ago."

"I didn't know that," Ste muttered, and something about his tone sounded accusing.

"Well, now you do."

"Did you enjoy it?"

Brendan nodded, sipping from his glass.

"You know me Steven, I like to take a gamble."

The deeper meaning of those words wouldn't be lost on Ste, he knew. Unusually Ste didn't seem to have a response; instead he watched as a plane left the runway, a dulled roar reverberating through the lounge as it ascended. The jet disappeared into the scattered clouds that littered the otherwise blue skies. Ste turned back towards Brendan, slight smile on his tanned face.

"That'll be us soon."

Brendan checked his watch.

"Half an hour to boarding or thereabouts. Here's hoping it's on time."

Ste drained his glass and placed it onto the table between them.

"You're gambling on me aren't you? That's what you meant."

Brendan sighed, putting his glass down next to Ste's, a matching pair. He looked into Ste's apprehensive eyes and felt his heart lurch in his chest.

"Yes."

It wasn't easy to say, and it clearly wasn't easy to hear either, because Ste's apprehension shifted into distress in the blink of an eye.

"Brendan I don't... I can't -"

Brendan put out a hand, hesitating for only a moment before placing it on Ste's knee.

"Steven, let's not do this now, there's no need. It's all fine. Now I'll go and get some more drinks, okay?"

He patted the knee that was in his grasp reassuringly, before getting up and making his way to the bar without waiting for a response from Ste. He knew it was cowardly, but facing the reality of this thing with them was not part of the plan for that day. When Brendan got to the well stocked bar, he poured a generous scotch into a glass with a trembling hand, downing it swiftly. An unhealthy coping mechanism to fall back on, but sometimes it was too easy. Brendan didn't need anyone to tell him how long the odds were on this particular bet of his, but there was nothing for it now.

Whatever happened, he was all in.

* * *

There is already a queue at the gate when they arrive at it, although the line for business is thankfully much shorter. The shift in mood between them is palpable, and Ste is uncertain of how to proceed. He feels the tension radiating from Brendan in waves, and this on its own has made him reluctant to attempt conversation. As they venture down the walkway to the plane door Ste becomes aware of his anxiety beginning to soar, and he sucks in a deep breath designed to calm. He is fascinated by airplanes, loves watching them, but actually using them for travel, hurtling towards a destination at over five hundred miles an hour causes nerves that refuse to be dispelled by two feeble glasses of champagne. The smiling flight attendant who points out their seats offers them a new glass of fizz which Ste graciously accepts. When Brendan waves at Ste to take the window seat, Ste shakes his head.

"You sit there, it's fine."

Brendan looks for a moment as though he may argue, but eventually shrugs and slides across into the assigned seat. Ste remains in an awkward hover between aisle and seat, hesitating to take his own place.

"You going to sit in your jacket the whole flight?" he asks tentatively.

"Do you want me to take my jacket off Steven?"

"Well, no, not if you don't want to, but it's just... if you do, then it'll have to go up here won't it, and..."

There is something peculiarly aggressive about the way Brendan stands back up, shrugging out of the offending leather jacket, thrusting it in Ste's direction. Ste flinches, thinks about telling Brendan that he is being childish, that he just wants him to be comfortable, but something stops him, and he folds the jacket to place it snugly on top of his suitcase in the overhead compartment without saying a word.

When he sits down Brendan is resolutely refusing to look at him, staring instead out of the window, watching the palettes of luggage being loaded.

"Ta," Ste says gratefully to the flight attendant when she returns and hands him a glass full of bubbles. He watches Brendan taking the one offered to him with a wink and dazzling smile, the charm turned up to high almost instantaneously, leaving the woman with the rouge lipsticked mouth with a flush across her cheeks. He is after all a charismatic, handsome man, Ste thinks, trying to be objective, trying not to take it personally. Brendan can have that effect on _anyone_ , if he so chooses. Brendan catches him looking and the smile fades, slight confusion on his face as he mouths "what?" in Ste's direction.

"Nothing. Just drink your drink."

The truth is that, in many ways, this man sitting next to him is a closed book. To all intents and purposes, a stranger. He doesn't know anything about travelling with Brendan - it is something that, for one reason or another, they never got to do. When he travels with Ben, he knows their routines, knows for example that they both have hand luggage containing essentials just in case their hold cases go missing. Knows that Ben takes the window seat because looking out of the window mid flight makes Ste dizzy. Knows that Ben waits for the bags at baggage reclaim whilst Ste fetches a trolley, trialling them first to check that the wheels behave. A wave of guilt hits him, threatening to drown him. He shouldn't be here with Brendan, what had he been thinking even suggesting it?

As the plane pushes back Ste's breathing quickens and becomes erratic, shaky puffs of air that he can't control. He closes his eyes, pushing his head into the headrest, trying to settle his nerves. A firm hand over his startles him, and he opens his eyes once more to find himself looking straight into Brendan's blue gaze.

"You're okay," Brendan murmurs, squeezing Ste's clammy hand in his warm, reassuring grip. Ste tries to smile, but his facial muscles won't cooperate. Brendan threads his free hand behind Ste's head and pulls him towards his body. Ste goes with it, feeling a little calmer as a soft kiss is pressed into his soft unstyled hair.

"Thought you liked planes, hmmm?" Brendan whispers into his hair. Ste allows himself to settle further into this new position, resting his weight into the safety of the other man's shoulder, his heart already slowing to a more normal speed as he takes in the scent of him and the feeling of security it brings.

"I _do_ like them when they're on the ground. It's just the whole being thousands of feet in the air bit..."

Ste says this in an attempt at humour, and is gratified when a rumble of laughter from Brendan vibrates through him.

"That _is_ where they're designed to be Steven."

"I know, don't get me wrong, it's amazing. But it just makes me..."

Brendan pulls him closer, presses a firmer kiss to his head.

"I've got you. I won't let anything happen to you."

How can he promise that, Ste wonders. How can he be so certain of anything? Ste doesn't verbalise this however, doesn't want to give voice to his doubt. Instead, as the plane takes off, Ste remains in Brendan's arms, and somehow the noise and the speed don't seem so terrifying from this place of safety.

And for the rest of the short flight, this is where he stays.

* * *

It was something about the air from the moment that he stepped out of the plane. Perhaps it was all in his head, but as he made his way down the steps, the chill of the wind scratching its nails across his face, leaving his skin stinging, made him feel as though he had made it home. When the bus door slid shut Brendan felt the loss of the breeze keenly, replaced as it was with the synthetic warmth that the vehicle he was now stood in kicked out. He grabbed hold of one of the straps hanging from the ceiling, maneuvering Ste's case so that it was trapped between his legs to prevent it rolling away from him in transit. Ste stood close to him, one hand on a handle, the other on Brendan's flank, the tips of fingers flush against the woven yarn of his jumper, sheltered from the outside by his leather jacket. He seemed subdued after the flight, saying very little as they disembarked. Ste had spent the entire flight curled up, head against Brendan's chest, his fear making him seem vulnerable and in need of protection, which Brendan was all too happy to provide.

"You okay?" Brendan asked once he managed to catch Ste's eye. The bus lurched forward, causing several passengers to lose their balance, Ste included. He made a surprised squeaking sound and readjusted his feet, grinning up at Brendan sheepishly.

"Sorry, was miles away then. Was trying to remember the first time I was here."

"And can you?"

Ste scrunched his face up with the effort of retrieving the memory.

"I don't know really. Airports all look the same, don't they?"

"I guess so Steven."

The terminal building loomed ahead and the bus began to slow down. Ste peered through the grubby windows curiously.

"It was really cold, first time I was here right. I remember that, remember thinking that even my bones felt cold."

"Well it _was_ December."

"I _know_ Brendan. Trust me, I hadn't forgotten that."

As they stepped from the bus to the arrivals lounge, Brendan thought once more about the letters, about Ste's yearly 'anniversary' wishes, and how they had of course gone unread. They hadn't even spent twenty four hours together in this city that first time, yet those hours had changed everything between them. Brendan sighed as they joined the passport queue - Ste struggling to recall the terminal building at the airport was hardly significant, because he was certain that what had come after was ingrained in time, fresh in the mind as the day it had happened.

It took some time to clear passport control, and another stretch of time after that for Brendan's bag to appear on the conveyor belt at baggage reclaim. Ste had found himself a seat on one of the benches scattered around the hall, and when Brendan approached him with his bag in tow, Ste eyed it critically.

"You'd better have some sharp outfits in there after all that."

"Of course, what do you take me for?"

"We've been here an hour you know."

"Impatient for some reason Steven?"

Ste glared at Brendan from his seated position before standing up abruptly.

"Ready then?"

"And raring."

The taxi ride was a quiet one. Brendan watched the world go by out of the frame of the window, and it was a little like watching a montage of time passing by. Much of the outer areas of the city were almost completely unrecognisable; in the eleven years that had gone by it seemed as though there had been some serious money spent on regeneration, with gleaming warehouses home to brightly coloured shopping complexes, acres of car parking almost full with vehicles. As the centre came into view however, Brendan began to feel the itch of recognition. Most of the buildings there were unchanged, attached as they were to the tourist trail - banks, shops, pubs, restaurant chains alongside churches and monuments - all the detritus of a city centre. He put his fingers to the glass as they passed a pub that had escaped life as part of a chain, a pub that Brendan had drank Guinness and whiskey in back when he had been unhappily married and had inhabited places like that to avoid going home. The memories of Dublin for Brendan were a canvas splattered unevenly with paint; incandescent and joyous splashes of yellow alongside the drips of deepest darkest indigo that represented much of his youth.

"I think this might be it," Ste said suddenly, breaking Brendan out of his reverie, pointing towards a rapidly approaching hotel on the left, opposite a park Brendan recognised but couldn't name.

"Looks like it," Brendan replied as the taxi pulled up at the entrance.

"Recognised it from the photos," Ste said, watching Brendan retrieve his wallet to fish out enough euros to pay for the journey. They entered the hotel reception, which was traditional in its opulence and overuse of marble.

"You got your passport handy Steven? We'll need it for check in."

"Yeah, hang on."

Ste unzipped the side pocket on his tracksuit top and handed it over as Brendan approached reception, which was quiet given that it wasn't yet midday.

"Good morning sirs, how can I help you?"

"Checking in. Name's Brady."

"Certainly Mr Brady," said the young man behind reception in a lilting Dublin accent, reminding Brendan more powerfully that he had arrived in his hometown once more. He leant across the desk to peer at the receptionist's actions on the computer in front of him.

"I actually rang up regarding an early check in because of our flight time. You got any note of that there?"

"Let me just check that for you sir. Okay, so you have one deluxe room booked for three nights?"

The receptionist glanced between Brendan and Ste, who was leaning against the adjacent empty desk, slight smile on his face, seemingly happy for Brendan to deal with the process.

"Yeah that's right."

"Looks like that early check in is all arranged for you, Mr Brady."

"Perfect."

"Great, so could I just ask for a credit card to secure the booking? Are you both Irish nationals?"

Brendan handed the receptionist his card and Ste's passport.

"He's not, so I'm guessing you'll need this."

"That's great. Just bear with me a couple of minutes."

The young man turned away from the desk, and Ste tiptoed nearer Brendan.

"Here, does that mean we can get into the room now then?"

"Certainly does Steven."

"That's good isn't it. Because they don't normally let you into the room until the afternoon do they? Thought we'd have to walk about for a few hours, get lunch and that."

"We can still do that if you'd like?"

Brendan searched Ste's face for a response. There was a telltale heat in the flicker of eyelashes and curve of his mouth that suggested Ste was in fact on the same page as Brendan when it came to plans for the rest of the day.

"No. Not unless -"

At that moment the receptionist returned to the desk, handing both passport and a pin machine to Brendan.

"So have you had a long journey into Dublin today?" the young man asked, clearly trained to feign interest in such minutiae.

"Yeah, we're from Manchester," Ste supplied. I'm not, Brendan thought to himself but didn't say out loud. The receptionist's face lit up at the information.

"Agh, I love Manchester. I'm a huge fan of the Red Devils."

Brendan stared at the man blankly, and Ste nudged him, murmuring "it's a football team" under his breath.

"Ah, course, right. The Devils."

The man behind the counter smiled and handed Brendan his credit card.

"Not a fan?"

"I've got to be honest with you, football's not exactly my thing."

"Fair enough. I mean, Ireland's hardly renowned for it after all is it?" the receptionist asked, but when it became clear he was not going to get a response from the man in front of him, he continued, "well, here are your keys - you're on the fourth floor, just take the lifts on the right and use your key to activate the floor. Enjoy your stay with us, won't you?"

"Ta," Ste said loudly, Brendan having already moved away from the desk in search of the lifts.

"Brendan," Ste muttered in a disapproving tone. Brendan pushed the up arrow on the wall twice firmly.

"Why have these people who work in customer service got to ask you so many questions? Be asking for my medical history next."

"It's customer service. It's part of the job."

"I'm telling you they'd get the job done a hell of a lot quicker if they dispensed with all of the fucking questions."

"Would this be a bad time to remind you that you work in an industry that relies on customer service?"

Brendan merely snorted in response, causing Ste to honk out a laugh as they entered the empty elevator.

"Wow Brendan. You really are _such_ a ray of sunshine sometimes."

"That's why you're here Steven. To counterbalance the grumpy old man."

There was a sparkle in Ste's eye as he replied, "you're not old."

Brendan leant against the side of the lift casually, a smirk on his face at Ste's cheek. There was a brief pause as the doors opened at the second floor to admit a gaggle of middle aged businessmen in suits, who took up so much space that when they reached the fourth floor Brendan and Ste had to step sideways around them to reach the corridor.

"This it?" Ste asked, hesitating at 423 while Brendan checked the card. He pressed the key on to the pad by the door and it obligingly flashed green and clicked, allowing them entry.

The room was relatively large for a city hotel, all modern beige decor with burgundy lamp shades and curtains. It was pleasingly soulless in the way that hotel chains seemed to strive for - clean and nothing too personal or subjective that might incite strong opinion. Much of the room was taken up by the large bed at the centre of it, gleaming white sheets folded so carefully that it almost begged to be sat on, to be rumpled up and left used. Brendan pulled the filmy net curtain away from the window, which turned out not to be a window in fact, but a balcony door. The balcony itself was narrow, but furnished with a small coffee table and two chairs that would be pleasant to use in warmer weather.

He replaced the curtain and looked around to see Ste standing, statue like, in the middle of the room. The luggage remained by the row of wardrobes where it had been deposited, and Ste seemed to be in no hurry to touch it. The atmosphere in the room altered then, or perhaps it was just that way for Brendan, but suddenly it became difficult to move, as though the air was so thick he had to wade through it. Though it must have only taken seconds, reaching Ste felt like it took monumental effort, and his treacherous heart thudded so loudly that he was sure that Ste would be able to hear it, would know just how nervous he was. Brendan dispensed with his leather jacket, allowing it to drop the floor. Ste swallowed audibly, but did nothing to move towards Brendan, did nothing to close the agonising gap between them, just continued to look at him with such intensity that Brendan could hardly stand it. He understood what Ste was doing; it was to be Brendan that made the first move, it was to all be Brendan's choice.

It wasn't a difficult choice; hardly a choice at all really. Brendan bent his head to touch Ste's lips to his own, a soft feather light touch that barely made an indent into the skin. He kept his eyes open to watch Ste's close, an expression approaching rapture on his angelic features. Brendan wondered, not for the first time, how he had ended up there, how someone like him had been allowed access to something that came so close to heaven. It was not the time to examine this question closely, so instead he kissed Ste once more, with more force this time, slight smacking of lips seeming to echo through the room. It might have been this noise that caused Ste's restraint to snap - he let out a long moan and pulled Brendan towards him with a force that made them both stumble, a force that his slight frame wouldn't suggest he was capable of.

It was not like it often was - frantic and uncoordinated - because today there was all the time in the world. Brendan stroked the juncture of Ste's neck and jaw, his delicate pulse fluttering under his fingers like a frightened bird. Teeth caught his lip and hot breath ghosted over his mouth, sensuous and suggestive. Ste unzipped his tracksuit top, allowing it to join Brendan's jacket, goosebumps popping up on his bare arms. Brendan ran his hands over them, attempting to warm Ste with his own body heat.

Ste broke from the embrace abruptly, and Brendan found himself chasing his mouth desperately, frowning when Ste put a hand on his chest to keep him at arm's length.

"Let me get my clothes off will you," Ste said, voice breathless and laced with humour. Brendan nodded dumbly, watching as trainers, trousers and t-shirts all gave way, giving him his first view of that beloved body for over twelve months. He took a breath as Ste traced his fingers across his own chest, his nipples pebbling at the lightness of the touch, obvious bulge prominent in his skin tight boxer shorts. It had been too long; Brendan wasn't sure if he could stand to take it as slow as he truly wanted to. He hastily dispensed with his own clothing and led Ste towards the bed, lying down side by side, running a hand right the way along his flank.

Details became hazy - no longer any danger of Ste's skin bearing any signs of the chill in the air. Tongues and limbs were entangled, fiercely holding onto each other as if their lives depended upon it. They pressed against each other, their arousal fighting for each other's attention, but each time things were in danger of becoming too heated, Brendan pulled back, calmed things down, earning exasperated groans from Ste. Brendan let his tongue travel down Ste's neck, tasting the remnants of aftershave he had applied in duty free, nipping gently at his nipples, until Ste growled and grabbed handfuls of Brendan's hair, pushing forcefully at his head. The action made Brendan's mouth curve into a smile as he licked and bit his way down Ste's body slowly, despite the insistent pressure from Ste's palms, and which only relaxed a little when he reached his goal.

Brendan had been worried that Ste would no longer want him in the same way. He needn't have been worried. Ste's body was as reactive as ever, taut with tension right down to his toes as Brendan swirled his tongue around the head of Ste's cock, remembering all over again just what the man under him liked; licking, sucking and tasting until Ste began to tremble involuntarily.

"Don't stop," Ste gasped in an oddly choked, high pitched tone that was far removed from his usual voice, but his warning wasn't needed: Brendan had no intention of stopping. When Ste came it sent shockwaves through his whole body and Brendan knew with certainty that, even though much had changed, their effect on each other's bodies never would. He stroked Ste's hips and thighs, lightly tracing through the hairs there, peppering featherlight pecks on his stomach, letting him regain his breath. Ste's hands were over his face, and he let out a shaky laugh.

"Fucking hell."

"You're welcome," Brendan said with a trace of amusement, climbing from the bed and going to his case, leaning it over on its side to unzip it and to pull out his wash bag.

"What are you doing?" Ste asked, sounding put out that Brendan had stopped touching him, even for a moment. Brendan held up the condoms and lube he had retrieved.

"Supplies," he replied, throwing them on to the bed next to Ste while he stepped out of his underwear. Ste shuffled up the bed, propping himself on his elbows, dazed grin across his face. Brendan couldn't help but bend over and kiss him until the grin dissolved into open mouthed want once more.

"Brendan?"

"Yes Steven."

"Fuck me."

"With pleasure."

* * *

It had been cold when they had first entered the hotel room, the air conditioned chill wrapping itself around Ste's skin. He had meant to check the room's temperature panel, had meant to turn the degrees up, but somehow the task had been forgotten. There are tiny beads of sweat across his chest and stomach now, all thoughts of hiding under bed clothes vanished under Brendan's ministrations. His fingers - two of them - are moving inside Ste fluidly, but steadily, and Ste knows he is doing it on purpose, knows he is teasing, drawing it out, no matter how desperately Ste pants at against his open mouth or how urgently he moans. His hands are on Brendan, but he is moving them erratically, distracted as he is by what is being done to him. Shivers of pleasure course through him almost relentlessly. Ste feels too tightly wound, a coiled spring, and he breathes the word "please" into Brendan's mouth again and again until it becomes one long incoherent noise. He whines as the fingers are removed and the kisses cease. He opens his eyes to watch Brendan above him, ripping open a condom wrapper with a practised hand, rolling it on and positioning himself between Ste's legs. Ste wraps his calves around Brendan's waist, crossing his feet to trap the man into moving closer. Brendan obliges, and Ste's eyes close, focusing on the sensation of being filled, of their bodies being joined together. It always feels right, being with Brendan like this, it feels like this is where he is supposed to be. Brendan's lips are against his once more, and he loops his arms around his neck, stroking the nape and the soft hair there, pulling Brendan's bottom lip with his teeth. This is not being fucked, Ste thinks, though that is what he had requested. They are too close, the rhythm is too slow, and when Ste opens his eyes again the way they look at each other is too intimate, it says too much. He puts a hand on Brendan's cheek and a shiver runs through him, as he tilts his pelvis up a little more to get the angle just right. As Brendan picks up the pace their moans synchronise, no distinction between whose noise is whose. Brendan breathes Ste's name, and the power of those two syllables is evident, because Ste feels it reverberate through his body, warming his already heated core. He releases Brendan's face, reaches down to fist his own dick, and it is too much, all at once. They come almost together, Ste slightly ahead of Brendan, and the sensation of it is like a jump from the ledge of a burning building. Necessary, desperate, almost euphoric. Ste cannot help but wonder, in the quiet moments after, when they are wrapped in each other's arms under the no longer pristine bed covers, what it will feel like when he finally, irreversibly hits the ground.

* * *

 **A/N: I have agonised about whether or not to publish this, because I wanted the Dublin days to be one entire chapter of their own. BUT it is so long that I am not even halfway through it, and I am conscious of leaving it hanging for another month with nothing! So I have separated day one as above. Please let me know if you have strong opinions on this - would you rather it took a bit longer but have the rest of the story in one go, or are you happy with it being in sections? Even if you don't normally leave feedback, I'd love as many reader opinions as possible and I'll go with the consensus! The next day is nearly ready to go so would be published in the next week or so if that is the way people would prefer. Thank you again, as ever. xx**


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